


Rise Above

by brittlemarch



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Apologies, Arguments, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Awkward Boners, BUTT APPRECIATION, Clint Barton's Farm, Frustration, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mansplaining, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Masturbation in Shower, Minor Character Death, Missing Scene, Morning Wood, Oral Sex, Popcorn, Sharing a Bed, Sleep Groping, Smut, Spooning, Steve Rogers's Butt, Testosterone, Tony Being Tony, Tony Stark's Butt, UST, Wanda cooks, accidental cuddles, also sexual frustration, basically I rewrote AoU a little, battle aftermath, canon though don't worry, guess who's the little spoon, idk why i wanted them to watch jurassic park together, kind of, no size kink really but a little size appreciation maybe, oh how I love UST, somebody control Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13038030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlemarch/pseuds/brittlemarch
Summary: I got frustrated because there was no scene in AoU where everyone tries to decide who has to bunk with who when they're at Clint's farm house. So I wrote it. And then it mutated and grew about 20k words longer than I intended. Ahem. So what basically happens is I unnecessarily re-tell and excessively explain some parts of AoU, scatter some of my own scenes around them and top it all off with an 8k sex scene."Strange, he thinks, that for everything they've been through together, the entire time they've known each other, Tony has never seen his feet, and he's never seen Tony's midriff, and is it really weird that the first time they see these unknown bare parts of each other is the first time they're about to get into bed together?Not together, he corrects himself, just... at the same time and place.He thinks about how many people are probably jealous of him right now, how many women would have scolded him for not turning around to have a peek because frigging Iron Man is stripping not six feet behind him."





	Rise Above

**Author's Note:**

> I truly didn't intend for it to be nearly this long. But now it is and I'm posting it and if there are any mistakes I alone am responsible for them.

**1\. On close quarters.**

 

”You've done well, Clint,” Steve says earnestly, watching the two children whose existence he's just been made aware of.

Clint's son and daughter are chasing each other with water guns outside the window. The sun is setting, the sky gorgeously pink and orange and the fields behind the barn and fences glowing golden in its light.

Open sky.

Rose bushes.

Steve kind of wants to laugh at how picturesque it all is.

”Yeah,” Clint smiles fondly at the sight of his children. ”I guess I did. I'm not taking credit for it, though, I just got lucky. Most days I still feel like I have no idea how all of this happened.”

Having only known Laura a few hours, Steve already views her as an efficient woman who doesn't like to put things off when they need to be done. It's a trait they have in common, and also, he figures, the reason he's now alone upstairs with Clint. It's not very late yet, but a few minutes ago in the kitchen, Laura was busy cleaning up after dinner and making dessert simultaneously, so she called over her shoulder to ask Clint to find bedding for everyone.

”And a change of clothes,” she added. ”We can't ask the Captain to sleep in his leather suit.”

”What about his birthday one?” came Tony's voice immediately from the dart board.

Steve looked over at him wearily, but Laura smiled indulgently.

”Change of clothes,” she repeated.

”Coming up,” Clint said and made to leave the room.

Steve offered to help and Clint agreed, so now here they are. They can hear muffled chatting and Laura laughing from downstairs, the sweet smell of a pie baking spreading throughout the house. All of it infinitely soothing to Steve, who, like everyone else in the house, still feels tense and worried in the light of everything.

This may all look like a holiday from the outside, but it sure doesn't feel like one. He supposes this is a good thing, seeing he's not really supposed to sit back and relax. But it does still feel peaceful. Certainly a lot more so than anything that's happened since he was defrosted. Hell, probably since he became Captain America, when he thinks about it more closely. And as much as he normally wouldn't admit it, or even think about it much, it's a very welcome change.

They stand in silence for a while, trying to separate the pillowcases from the duvet covers. They're a sight, the pair of them, their grim, manly frowns and bulging biceps quite useless as they fold pastel colored bedsheets in the sunset.

A blackbird sings outside the window. The doors of the linen closet are still open and the sheets smell of detergent, but also a little musty from the cupboard.

Steve can't believe Hawkeye has a linen closet.

”Great, that should do it,” Clint says eventually, gathering some of the bedding into his arms and nodding to the set of lavender ones that's left. ”Would you be a lamb and take that to the room down the hall?”

”Sure,” Steve nods, taking the sheets under one arm.

”Thanks. Meet me in the master bedroom when you're done, I'm sure we can find you some clothes that aren't... that.”

He motions vaguely at Steve's still leather-clad body. Steve grins.

”That'd be great.”

The 'room down the hall' turns out to be a pretty nice one. Rustic, with no wallpapers, just visible woodwork. A rag rug, a small closet, an unmade twin bed, a single window facing the front lawn.

Steve realizes he doesn't know whether Clint meant for him to make the bed. He thinks probably not, but does it all the same.

Once the bed is made, the room looks like the very definition of a countryside guest room. He looks around again, intrigued by how much he feels like he both belongs here, and doesn't.

The master bedroom is next to the staircase. He finds Clint rummaging around in a dresser.

Clint glances over his shoulder when Steve knocks on the door frame.

”Hey,” he says, turning back to the dresser. ”What took you so long?”

”I made the bed,” Steve admits.

”Of course you did.” Steve can't see Clint's face, but he can hear the smirk in his voice and he's shaking his head. ”You know you didn't have to, right?”

”I know, but I figured I should contribute in any way I can. It's really nice of you guys to have us.”

”Please. Any excuse to see my wife and kids. And Laura loves company. Here, do you think this will do?” Clint straightens and hands Steve a white t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. ”It might be a tight fit,” he muses, looking Steve up and down, ”but hopefully it'll work.”

”Thanks.”

Steve holds up the t-shirt appraisingly. He can never tell whether stuff will fit him before he tries it on, but he thinks this looks fine.

”Why don't you try them on, and if they don't fit, we'll find you something else,” Clint suggests.

”Good idea. I'm actually dying to get out of this.”

Steve tugs at the collar of his suit. Clint gives a little huff of laughter.

”Yeah, I bet you're roasting in that thing. I'll give you some privacy.”

Clint leaves the room and pulls the door mostly shut behind him.

Steve starts wrestling out of the suit, sighing in relief once it's down to his waist. It's like his skin can breathe again.

He gets out of the suit completely, feeling a little odd standing in the strange bedroom in just his underwear, and then into the borrowed clothes. The sweatpants are actually perfect, really soft and comfortable. The fit is a little snug across the ass, which he's sure he'll hear from several of his team-mates, but he doesn't mind all that much. And, well, the t-shirt is tight, but he's worn tighter.

”How's it looking?” says Clint from behind the door.

”Great. They fit just fine. Thanks, man.”

The door is pushed open again and Steve can feel Clint's eyes on him as he bends to pick up the leather suit from the floor. Clint nods.

”Better than I thought. Good, that just leaves Tony and Bruce. I'm actually kinda relieved Thor didn't stay – finding clothes for him would have been a bitch. Although it might have been interesting to see how he'd look in a crop top.”

Steve snickers while examining some loose threads in his uniform. He'll have to see to that, wouldn't want it coming apart during battle.

”Honestly, I doubt Thor ever takes his armour off anyway, even for sleeping.”

”Oh, right, speaking of,” says Clint, who's started sorting through all the clothes he's flung on the floor, ”lucky guy that you are, you're going to have to bunk with Tony.”

Steve looks up from his suit, his expression somewhere between blank and appalled.

”I'm going to what with who?”

Clint looks at him apologetically.

”Yeah. Sorry. Limited seating.”

Steve stares at him for a moment.

”I'd be fine on the couch.”

”Bruce called one of them. Nat's on the other.”

Steve frowns.

”Really? Is that... are you sure that makes sense?”

Clint doesn't look up from what he's doing, but his eyebrows shoot up and he makes a little motion with his head, a sort of brief tilt.

”Well, for reasons that are apparently obvious to everyone but me, Laura thought we'd offer them the guest room, but I told Bruce and he looked terrified and went into this whole rant about controlling himself and what if this and that and I didn't even catch half of it, but long story short, you're sharing with Tony. Congrats.”

Steve smiles, but can't hold back a sigh as he looks back down and absently picks at the threads in his suit.

”Can't wait.”

Clint laughs.

”Yeah, I can't apologize enough. But hey, I'm sure it won't be as bad as you're imagining it. I mean, you've gone through much worse together, and you're both adults.”

”Are we?” Steve mutters, thinking of the slightly too enthusiastic look on Tony's face while, an hour earlier, he pieced one of the kids' toy trucks back together.

 

It's a little while past midnight and Steve is standing with his arms crossed, halfway through a staring contest with the bed that he and Tony will be sharing.

Yeah. Bed. Not just bedroom.

For a building that stocks about 30 extra toothbrushes, this place seems shockingly unprepared to house more than one guest at a time.

The bed in question is the one that Steve made himself earlier that evening, the twin with the lavender bedsheets. Steve won't say it out loud, but he's too big to comfortably share a twin bed with anyone. His waist is relatively small but his shoulders take up an unproportional amount of room – Tony's called him Captain Dorito on more than one occasion. But his shoulder width has never been an issue before. Enter the Avengers, he thinks, amused and exasperated at the same time.

The door creaks open and Tony enters, still in the clothes he arrived in but carrying a bundle of borrowed ones under one arm.

”Oh. Hey. Nice feet.”

Steve isn't wearing socks and he realizes that yeah, he's probably never been barefoot in Tony's presence before and in a way it's a little weird that his feet are exposed. All of a sudden he feels vulnerable.

Tony puts his borrowed clothes on the nightstand and starts taking off his watch.

”So I guess this makes the birthday suit joke kinda weird.”

He glances at Steve, who chuckles.

”Don't worry, my clothes are staying on.”

“You say that now. Just wait 'til you're in bed with me.”

Tony winks at him. Steve rolls his eyes, but he's secretly relieved Tony's making jokes.

“I'll take my chances,” he smiles wryly. “Do you have a side?”

Tony makes a little dismissive scoffing noise.

“Come on, there's no need for that. You take the bed, I'll sleep on the floor. Throw me a pillow, would you?”

Steve shakes his head, a gesture which, in combination with his stern look and massive arms crossed over his equally massive chest, makes a pretty authoritative impression.

“Tony, I appreciate it, but don't. I know this is... not ideal, but we have some pretty rough days ahead of us and we need everyone at their best. Nobody's sleeping on the floor. You'll throw your back out.”

“Okay, you're making me sound about a hundred years old, which, if you ask me, is kind of a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

“It's not about being old, it's about you not being of use to anyone if you're sore and exhausted.”

“You mean sharing a bed with you _won't_ leave me sore and exhausted? Oh, Rogers, I always knew you'd be a tease.”

Steve feels a small rush of heat to his face, although nothing worse than what's normal in his current company. He sighs audibly.

“Pick a side or I will.”

Tony is still frowning, unconvinced, but he looks from the soft, soon-to-be warm bed to the wooden floor and back again. His shoulders slump in resignation and he sighs irritably.

“Fine. I sleep on the left.” He nods towards the side closest to himself. “And no hogging the covers.”

Steve says nothing, just smiles in a long-suffering sort of way and folds back the duvet from the part of the bed that has now been assigned to him.

Right. This really is awkward, regardless of how hard he tries to pretend it's not.

He feels weird about getting into bed because then he'll kind of just be in bed, waiting for Tony to get in with him. But he also can't just stand around and watch while Tony gets undressed. Either way he goes, there's no denying this is most likely going to be a desperate struggle for sleep to escape their discomfort.

“Cap? Do you mind?” Tony solves his dilemma for him by pointedly twirling a finger in the air.

“Sorry.”

Tony starts pulling his shirt off and Steve politely turns his back and gets into bed, glad he's already changed and doesn't have to do it in front of Tony. He does try not to look at the other man at all before turning around, but he's not quick enough to miss the flash of toned, dark-haired midriff on display under the hem of Tony's halfway-off shirt. Strange, he thinks, that for everything they've been through together, the entire time they've known each other, Tony has never seen his feet, and he's never seen Tony's midriff, and is it really weird that the first time they see these unknown bare parts of each other is the first time they're about to get into bed together?

Not  _together_ , he corrects himself, just... at the same time and place.

He thinks about how many people are probably jealous of him right now, how many women would have scolded him for not turning around to have a peek because frigging  _Iron Man_ is stripping not six feet behind him. He can hear clothes rustling and a couple of small  _thwump_ s when Tony's shirt and pants land on the floor. The sound stirs a twisting sensation in his stomach and he scowls at the embroidered picture on the wall in front of him.

He takes some comfort in the fact that the mattress is nice and firm, not springy. It molds to his body, and doesn't seem to have the annoying creak he expected. But he still feels, somehow, as if it's going to be a long night.

 

Tony strips down to his underwear and then quickly puts on the clothes Clint has dug out for him. Black tee and sweatpants, both a little long and loose but still a lot better than sleeping in his jeans, or in his boxer briefs next to America's biggest prude. The clothes smell the same way Clint does, clean and reliable, which is oddly comforting.

Having already brushed his teeth, there really is no other reasonable way of stalling once he's changed.

Okay. Time to get into bed. With Captain America.

Honest to God, sometimes Tony thinks fate has her own Candid Camera show, and he's her favorite victim.

“Uh. I'm getting in,” he feels like he should tell Steve.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Steve replies, tightness obvious in his voice even though he's clearly trying to sound casual.

Ugh, this is the worst. Steve's back is still turned, which Tony technically knows is an expression of respect for his privacy, but it makes him feel unwelcome. And in spite of the fact that Steve is a human blast furnace, the bed hasn't properly warmed up yet. Tony shivers a little as he gingerly gets into bed and tries to settle among the cool sheets.

Tony entered their shared room with his mind set on getting them both through the night with no black eyes or broken jaws. He figured the best way to make that happen was to try and give each other as much space as possible, but the moment he gets in that bed, he realizes they're probably screwed in that regard. Their bed is about half the size of the one he sleeps in by himself, and then there's the fact that Steve is built like a fucking brick wall and Tony, though smaller, isn't exactly a ballerina himself. When Tony is on his side, his knees bump into the fold of Steve's. Also, he doesn't like staring into the other man's back. He rolls onto his back, but then his hip presses into Steve's ass and his own shoulder is sharply wedging in under Steve's shoulder blade.

“Ow,” Steve deadpans.

“Quit being a wuss.”

He tries lying on his other side, but then they're ass to ass, and in all honesty, the firmness of Steve's is kind of freaking him out. He should have expected as much – you'd have to be blind not to notice how Steve's butt does not jiggle  _in the slightest_ no matter what he does. Not even during workouts when he punches the living crap out of all of Tony's sand bags. No. Just... no.

He squirms to try and find some way of positioning himself so that at least those exact parts of their bodies won't meet, but nothing else is comfortable, so he tries rolling onto his back once again.

“Tony,” Steve says – through clenched teeth, it sounds like, “I swear to God, if you're going to wiggle around like this all night...”

“Hey, I'm not the one taking up all the room in this bed.”

“I'm literally taking up as little room as I physically can.”

“You're not trying hard enough,” Tony mutters.

“Was I not supposed to hear that? Because you said it pretty loud.”

“Listen, if you have any suggestions as to how we're supposed to make this any less awkward, I'm all ears, but if you don't, shut your trap and leave me to my wiggling.”

“It'll be awkward no matter what we do,” says Steve, and hearing him admit that somehow takes the edge off Tony's annoyance.

He sighs.

“Okay, well, if you're not gonna let me try to find a position that works for both of us, you wanna give it a shot?”

Steve rolls onto his back in an attempt to find a position he can actually sleep in, but then things become truly uncomfortable. Their shoulders are crammed against each other and the right-hand side of Steve's body isn't even actually on the bed anymore.

“Yeah, this is awful,” Tony states conversationally, staring up at the naked wooden ceiling.

They both sigh this time.

“Alright,” Steve says, sounding as weary as Tony feels. “I think we're both trying to ignore the obvious solution here.”

Tony throws an arm across his face. He's sure he knows what Steve is thinking and it doesn't appeal to him. However, nothing else seems to feel anywhere close to sleep-friendly, and in all honesty, the floor would be even worse.

“Ugh. Really?” he says, mostly for good measure.

“Yeah,” Steve says apologetically. “You wanna be the little one?”

“Can't say I'm overly keen on being either, but sure, what the hell. I'll get to go where every woman who watches the news wants to go.”

Reluctantly, Tony turns onto his left side, away from Steve, and feels the mattress shift as Steve follows suit. His heart thumps peculiarly in his chest as he feels solid warmth and muscle against his back, thighs, calves. Even through the two layers of clothing he senses Steve's skin, smooth and impossibly warm. Jesus, Clint must have his shirts made from fairy dust they're so thin.

Behind him, Steve clears his throat.

“How's this?”

“Fine,” Tony manages, surprised to realize it actually is, and more.

About sixteen levels too intimate, sure, but he's rapidly warming up and, more importantly, he's comfortable for the first time since he entered the room. Steve has this soothing aura of capability, a way of making everyone feel safe and looked out for. Tony has always thought he was immune to this quality, but now, with Steve's breath tickling his neck...

Tony's eyes finally close and he slowly breathes out.

“How about you?” he asks.

“Yeah. Good,” Steve replies, but Tony can tell there's something he's not saying.

“What's wrong?” he asks, exhausted.

“Nothing. Just... I'm not sure what to do with my arm. Would you mind if...?”

Right, of course. The arm. Tony's been the big spoon enough times that he knows how to deal with the arm issue.

“You know what,” he says resignedly, because really, they've crossed the line of what feels normal and okay oh so long ago, “knock yourself out. This is already undeniably a cuddle anyway.”

Wordlessly, a heavy arm wraps around his waist. Things get even warmer. Steve tucks his hand under Tony's ribs and this has to be the weirdest Tony has ever felt.

Still, he's quickly beginning to feel really drowsy. His body, at least, seems to be responding well to this invasion of personal space. His breath is slowing down, his gut heating with content. His heart is still beating harder than usual, but everything else – calm. Sleepy. He almost wants to purr.

“Better?” he mumbles.

“Mhm,” Steve mumbles back, and Tony gets the impression that he, too, is feeling more relaxed than he expected. “I mean, it's completely messed up and all, but...”

“You're telling me. I'm being spooned by Captain America.”

Steve snorts a little, but cheerfully.

“Let's just go to sleep.”

“Yes, Captain.”

 

**2\. On even closer quarters.**

 

Tony wakes at the crack of dawn and immediately turns his head to look outside the window. It's still mostly dark out there, but with streaks of bright red across the horizon.

He yawns and cracks his shoulder joints to the best of his ability, careful not to wake Steve, who, from the sound of his deep and regular breathing, is still fast asleep. Also, with Steve's arm still thrown around his middle, he really can't move that much.

Impressive, he thinks, that they're still in the exact position they were when they went to sleep. That rarely happens to him, and as for Steve, he's sure he's heard him say he's a light sleeper. Apparently they make a good team, in bed as well as in battle, he thinks with grim amusement.

His left arm is a little numb, though. It seems he's been more or less lying on it for a while. Carefully, he tries to wriggle it out from underneath his torso. This small action causes one of his butt cheeks to move directly against the front of Steve's pants.

Where it rubs against a hardness that Tony would have to be a much bigger idiot not to recognize.

His eyes fly open.

Holy shit.

Not that it's a big deal, he tells himself, no big deal at all. It's not like  _he_ doesn't get morning glory. And while it's far from his main science subject, he has  _some_ basic knowledge of male anatomy. He knows, at least sort of, why it happens and that it pretty much never has anything to do with being excited or even conscious.

In other words, nothing to get worked up about.

Except who is he kidding, he's totally worked up about it.

Steve shifts a little in his sleep, and there it is again, stiff and hot through the stretchy fabric of their pants. Cursing the inventor of sweatpants, Tony feels a traitorous twitch between his own legs, where he's already half hard from sleep himself. He tries staying really still, giving his body a moment to recognize the fact that this is not a situation to get turned on by, but to no good. With the insistent pressure of that hardness, the heat of Steve's body and his hand on a sensitive spot near Tony's armpit, Tony swells quickly and is sporting a full, glorious chub in roughly 20 seconds.

Okay, what the hell?

He was grateful when his body responded to Steve by getting sleepy, but if  _this_ response is something that he's going to have to start dealing with, well, he can't.

Wide-eyed, he lies in the near-darkness, uncharacteristically at a loss.

He's almost decided to get out of bed and make a run for it, hide in the secure cocoon of the bathroom, take a cold shower, when Steve lets out a little moan and starts stirring in a way that lets Tony understand that he's waking up.

Okay then. He's doomed.

If he'd been a little more awake, alert, if he hadn't slept so goddamned well next to this colossus, he'd have had time to get the hell out of here before either of them would have to live through this.

Not yet fully awake, Steve stretches, flexing the arm that's holding Tony, pulling him even closer.

“Mmm,” he hums, lazily grinding his pelvis against Tony's ass.

Tony swallows thickly. Steve is so hard.

Evidently, half-asleep Steve is enjoying what he's subconsciously doing, because he makes another little rocking motion with his hips and Tony bites back a gasp as Steve's rock-solid erection slips in between his butt cheeks.  _Fuck._

Tony's shirt collar feels tight and he struggles to remember how to breathe.

Then,  _oh fuck are you fucking kidding me_ , then there's a little thrust.

And another. And another.

Tony's underwear feel much too small. He's hyper aware of every part of his body where it touches Steve's. He feels raw, skinless.

An uninvited thought creeps into his head and settles there, like a nesting bird, and he can't get rid of it. It feels like Steve's... proportional. It's not the first time Tony's mind goes there, but it is the first time he's had a shot at figuring out if he's right. Steve's a big guy in general. And, well, after the serum, it would only make sense. And... yeah. That's how it feels, but it's tricky to really tell.

Suddenly, surprisingly, Tony also finds himself wondering what it looks like, more specifically. If it's veiny or smooth, cut or uncut, and what color the head flushes now that he's hard; if it's a deep shade of pink like his own or just kind of rosy-- oh God, he cannot allow any of this to go on any longer.

Gritting his teeth and staring straight ahead, he considers his options. Maybe if he doesn't move, Steve will go back to sleep completely and Tony can make his escape. But on the other hand, maybe if he doesn't move, Steve's semi-conscious mind will take it as consent and proceed to dry hump him into oblivion.

Of course, he still has the option to just scramble out of bed and rush to the bathroom. Steve might still realize what's happened once he wakes up properly, but if he bolts now, Tony can still make it out of the room and not have to be there to witness it.

Steve's regulated breathing comes to a very sudden halt, as does his movements.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut.

“Morning, Cap,” he says throatily.

“Uh,” Steve's voice is thick with what sounds like confusion and... a lot like arousal. “Yeah. Um. How... how long have you been awake?”

“Longer than you, but not long.”

“Right.” Tony can hear him swallow. “Right.”

“Everything all right back there?”

Probably completely the wrong thing to say as it puts Steve in a terrible position, but what the hell would be the right thing to say?

“I don't know,” comes Steve's raspy, puzzled voice. “I... is this... did I...”

“Steve,” Tony says firmly, deciding to just get it over with because this is _painful_ , “let's not... can we just get your junk of out my crack real quick?”

There's a faint rustling sound as Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says weakly, easing his hips away.

Tony briefly shuts his eyes in relief. Steve keeps scooting back, until he's moved as far away from Tony as he physically can without falling off the bed.

“Awesome. Listen, this is obviously mortifying for both of us.”

“Tony---”

“No,” Tony cuts him off because he can tell Steve is about to apologize, “Look, I know how you love to feel responsible and/or guilty for stuff that have nothing to do with you, but you were asleep, or as good as. It would be like saying you're sorry for having a dream about hitting me with your car.”

He can hear an intake of breath from behind him that sounds as if Steve is about to argue, but then apparently decides not to.

“As I was saying,” Tony tries again, “mortifying. In fact, on the top 10 list of worst situations I've ever been in, obviously not including the time I carried a nuke through a worm hole, or the time I created an AI that turned out to be pro world extinction...”

“Tony. Your point.”

“Yes. Point. Once we leave this room – actually, once we leave this bed, we pretend this never happened. Sound good?”

“Great.”

All of this is anything but great and Steve doesn't really sound like he thinks it is, but Tony, for once, chooses not to comment on that.

“Cool. Dibs on the shower.”

Steve remains silent while Tony quickly gets out of bed and hightails it to the adjacent bathroom. He's careful to keep his back turned even as he closes the door behind him – for all of his usual lack of common decency, he doesn't want to show Steve the bulge in his pants. He can't, however, help but steal a backwards glance over his shoulder to check on the good Captain, and feels for him when he sees that he's turned to lie on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. His ears are red. Actually, scarlet.

Poor guy. It can't be easy dealing with an accident like this when you carry around a pathological need to do the Right Thing in every situation. At least Tony already sees himself as a screw-up. He'd have found a way to get past it – not the incident, perhaps, but the fact that he was the one screwing up. He's not sure Steve will.

 

Once in the shower, Tony takes himself in hand.

He doesn't even bother trying to pretend he's not going to.

After he washes his hair, he leans forward. Braces one hand against the wet tile wall. Shuts his eyes. Breathes.

Still hard and sensitive, he strokes himself quickly, efficiently, breathing through his mouth but staying stubbornly quiet so Steve won't know.

He's bewildered at how aroused he is, at the intensity of the pulse between his thighs. But he doesn't want to dwell too much on it. They both popped wood, and they happened to be crammed together in the same bed when it happened. Big deal. He'll be much better off not thinking about it. Despite having joked about this being one of the worst experiences he's had, Tony's well aware that they have bigger things to worry about. And once he gets out of this shower, that's exactly what he'll do. And – oh – it seems he'll be getting out pretty soon.

Tony's breath hitches. His back and thighs tense. Okay. This is fine. He's drawing towards a faster finish than he's had in a very long time. Surely that means nothing.

 

Steve stays in bed for a couple of minutes after Tony runs off. His face is still burning, and he's started nursing a small hope that keeping his face buried in the pillow will eventually suffocate him.

He can't remember whether he had a dream of some sort, or if it was simply a matter of his body acting out what it needed before his mind caught up. It doesn't really matter, he supposes. Again and again he replays it in his head, he can't stop himself, it's like picking at a scab.

Waking up wondering why his body was thrumming with arousal.

Discovering he had a boner and that it was neatly tucked in between Iron Man's butt cheeks. Realizing he'd been... yeah. He dry humped Tony. There's no other word for it, no way for him to escape that thought. He guesses he was lucky to come to, before it got out of hand. And he  _does_ have the fact that he was still pretty much sleeping to blame, but still. It happened. For all his efforts to ease their discomfort about this whole ordeal,  _this_ happened.

He stays put, and after a while he isn't blushing anymore.

But he stays hard.

He rolls his hips again, grinding into the mattress, briefly enjoying the friction even though he knows he can't do more than that right now. But he doesn't really like the idea of staying in bed to wait it out, either. If he does, Tony will get back from his shower and Steve will still be there, still be hard from the stimulation Tony didn't consent to giving him – no. No way.

He still only has the sweatpants, in which his current condition will be blatantly obvious, but he'll cover it with something. Maybe a newspaper, there are a few stacked on the dresser. Chances are nobody else is even awake yet – the house seems very quiet. So he'll get out, go downstairs, pour himself cereal, and once he's sitting by the table, assuming anyone even enters the room, they won't know.

For a Captain, used to calling the shots in battles of life and death, it sure takes him a lot of planning to make it out of bed.

 

**3\. On sexual tension, hero angst and also, that log.**

 

He's on edge around Tony for the rest of the day.

He tries not to be. He really does. But, facing facts, he's always on edge around Tony. And the Incident hasn't helped.

Wistfully he thinks of how much easier it would have been if Bruce had just agreed to room with Nat. If he'd let Tony sleep on the floor when he offered. If the bed had been big enough that they could have comfortably slept next to each other. If they hadn't upset Wanda Maximoff and provoked her into letting the Hulk loose, since that's why they're here. If they'd just ganked both of the Maximoff kids when they had the chance.  _If._

But instead he very subtly tears an entire log in two when he and Tony are out in the yard, each of them trying to blow off steam chopping firewood. Since there's no one to punch. At least not reasonably.

For a while, they're okay, standing there swinging their axes.

Clint is taking measurements of the veranda for some purpose or other, accompanied by his son and daughter.

It's quiet. Cloudy, not too hot.

But then Tony starts talking.

Tony always starts talking.

He asks about Thor, but Thor didn't tell anyone anything before taking off. They can only hope he's got a real clue. This is technically what Steve means to say, but it comes out as a snarky comment on how everyone keeps secrets from him. For a moment their usual roles are switched when Tony tells him to give Thor a break, to bear Wanda Maximoff's powers in mind. But it's only for a moment, before Tony goes back to being his usual acidic self, jabbing at Steve's supposed lack of dark secrets. How he manages to make that sound like a bad thing, Steve's not sure. It's likely he's just had enough practice by now in How To Piss Off Captain America to have mastered the art.

And today, after last night, Steve can't really take it. He keeps his cool for a short while, jabs back calmly, but then Tony starts talking  _more_ and  _louder_ and Steve's wound so tight and then, the final straw, he talks about going home, just like Peggy did in the vision Maximoff gave him.

Steve is sick to death of being reminded of Peggy.

They had a good thing going. He's sure they did. But even if her condition wasn't a factor, everything, literally everything has changed since their time. Part of him wishes he could have that time back. Of course he does. Decades,  _decades_ of his life are forever lost. He's still struggling to catch up to present day. He hasn't seen all the  _Star Wars_ movies or quite figured out that whole Pokémon thing. However, deep down, he's come to terms with the fact that he can't have any of it back, and he's also started to quite appreciate the present.

He enjoys pop culture and how people seem eager to urge him to watch movies and listen to music rather than work. If it's a small assignment his team members will usually say something like “no, you finish watching that, I'll go take 'em out”. Which suits him fine. He loves movies, is still fascinated with the CGI and how clear the picture is, although he doesn't always appreciate contemporary script writing.

He  _loves_ the food. Always was a foodie, but used to be allergic to most of it. Now that there's no world war, his allergies are gone and there are things like cookie dough ice cream and a ramen place round every corner, he's always eating. His metabolism will allow him a next to limitless calorie intake. If he gains, he gains muscle.

He likes his team – even Tony, at long last. Most of the time. And he gets to do what he's always been dying to do.  _And_ he's tall, which counts for more than he would ever admit to anyone.

So yeah. Another reminder of the past, of what he lost, is kind of the last thing he needs right now.

This, combined with the fact that people keep talking about “home” when Steve is currently so lost in that regard, like he's not sure what “home” means anymore, on top of his built-up sexual frustration, all this is what provokes the log-tearing. That's Tony Stark for you – even when he's not trying, when he has no idea what's going on inside Steve's head, he finds his buttons.

They're saved by Laura, who wants help with the tractor. Tony leaves, and Steve's relieved that he does so with a nod and a joke. It's like his version of “fine, I get your point, we're cool”.

It's not that Tony was out of line, really. They've had worse arguments by far. It's just...  _him,_ his entire being, it's just inexplicably infuriating. The same way Steve can't explain why Tony's very presence sets him on edge, he can't explain why their little mishap that morning makes him feel so infinitely tense, like he's never been horny before and doesn't know how to handle it. It's not just the embarrassment, and it's not just a regular case of blue balls. It's as if being around Tony forces him to keep thinking about it, makes him remember how he felt. The ache. The want. The shortness of breath and nerve endings on fire. The throb of blood in his ears... between his legs. He always was more sensitive in the mornings, like all of his senses are dialled up. Touch in particular. He really, uh. Really likes touch in the mornings.

He stays outside, in the fresh air, with the axe, until Clint calls him inside for dinner.

When he comes back inside, Fury's there. Ambushed Tony in the barn, apparently. After dinner, they start discussing strategies and, thank God, that pretty much puts an end to any other thoughts Steve might have had that day. It's like getting to take an Aspirin after a day-long headache, and he starts to feel like himself again.

Minutes later, after Bruce's ability to sharply connect the dots strikes again, it's suddenly time to suit up. He and Tony have a little talk, a very quiet one, and it's as if nothing happened. As always, they know when it's time to put aside their differences. They're nothing if not professionals.

Clint kisses his wife goodbye, and Steve prays that they'll be able to bring him back safely. His life is now more important than any of the others'. After meeting his exasperatingly adorable family, he knows everyone on the team agrees on that.

He shoulders his shield, his stomach heavy with the feeling that from now on, they won't get much rest until their job is done in full.

 

**4\. On realizing what you need.**

 

Hours later, halfway to Seoul, Steve takes care of himself in the bathroom on the quinjet.

It's probably what he should have done back at the farm house to keep himself off Tony's back. Also, he figures he might as well. It's a long journey and patient as he is, he can only endure so much of the sight of miles and miles of open water, and listening to Clint and Natasha's game of “would you rather” that just keeps getting worse. Clint is serving as pilot but there isn't much piloting to be done at the moment – there's just ocean all around them.

“Okay, I've got one.” Nat's voice carries a note of gleeful malevolence. “Would you rather get a hand job from Edward Scissorhands, or a blow job from Sabretooth?”

Steve doesn't stick around to hear Clint's response, but he does glimpse his over-the-shoulder look of concern for Natasha's well-being before disappearing into the bathroom.

The uniform does have a zipper, but he's soon forced to realize doing it that way constricts his movements. His hand won't go all the way down to the base, and that doesn't work for him. He squirms out of the sleeves, rolls the suit down to just below his hips. After that, it's a lot easier. Better. It's a little cold, but he doesn't mind.

He steadies himself with his other hand on the stainless steel sink, keeps his eyes open at first. He looks down at the sink, though, not keen on watching himself in the mirror.

The sound of Clint's laughter carries through the door, and then his and Nat's voices talking over each other, although Steve can't make out what they're saying.

It takes him longer than he would have wanted – usually, he's already hard when he starts. Today he has to work himself up, but to be honest, it still doesn't take that long.

After he's cleaned up and caught his breath, he puts the suit back on, then makes sure nothing will give him away – a blush or an undone zipper. But you can't tell.

He comes back out and Natasha is gesturing animatedly.

“There's _no way_ you'd go for Dorothy before Rose! How can you even-- Betty White is an _icon,_ she'd charm your pants off before you even had time to wonder if she still has her natural hip joint.”

“Yeah,” says Clint, turning towards them in his seat, “you know, I'm not sure I'll take the word of someone who wants to bang Putin.”

“I didn't say I _wanted_ to. You made me choose between him and Stalin, dickwad.”

“Hey now,” Clint says, spotting Steve, “keep it clean, there's a Captain in the room.”

Steve's kind of started to accept the fact that nobody will let this go. Also, he's feeling less irritable than he did a few minutes ago because, well. So instead of getting all huffy, he shoots Clint a challenging smile, one eyebrow raised.

“Hey Cap, I've got one for you.” Clint's eyes are glinting with mischief.

“Oh, are you playing, Steve? This I gotta hear.”

Natasha leans forward curiously, elbows on her knees. Steve crosses his arms, still smiling, and leans back against the wall.

“Fine,” he concedes. “Lay it on me.”

“Remember,” Clint holds up a finger, “weigh the pros and cons before you decide. Okay, so, would you rather be caught in battle without your shield, fully clothed, or with the shield, naked?”

 

**5\. On Vision.**

 

Skeptical would be an extremely mild way of describing how Steve initially feels. He's fuming, incredulous that Tony would even consider giving this another shot when they're still fighting tooth and nail trying to clean up after his first attempt. The guy is absolutely incorrigible, and unbearably arrogant. How is it biologically possible for a person to still think they're right even after they've been proven chaotically, catastrophically wrong?

There's no way Steve is going to let this happen while there's still breath in his body, but apparently there's also no way Tony is letting this go, regardless of how much resistance he's facing from the others. And okay, if Steve looks really, really deep down, he can kind of understand why Tony would want to redeem himself, prove that he can do this right, but one guy's ego is most definitely no excuse to risk this all over again.

It's one hell of a relief, finally getting to throw a few punches at Tony. He's not even worried about hurting him too much – he's learned how to calculate exactly how much of an ass-kicking a person can take before it's truly damaging to them, and he knows for a fact that Tony's far from made of glass.

But Thor... Thor seems so sure. And Steve does trust his judgment, much more than he trusts Tony's. So when Thor holds up a huge hand to stop Steve from attacking this new creation, he stills. Waits.

As they all gather around Vision, Steve steals a glance at Tony. His eyes are alive with wariness - he looks a lot less confident now that the AI has actually come alive. That's probably as close to a normal reaction as they'll get from him, and at this point, Steve will take what he can get.

Bruce's face shows only worry, and Wanda's radiates despair. Thor's stance warns of a counter-attack, should Vision try anything.

Steve likes straight answers, and Vision doesn't seem prone to providing them. He – it? - doesn't seem sure about what he is, or the purpose of his existence, and Steve remains suspicious the whole time until Vision hands Thor his hammer. Just like that. Casually, without a backwards glance.

This concludes the conversation, puts all arguments on hold.

They suit up yet again.

 

Tony can't decide. Pride? Grief? Both are trying to claim dominance inside him. In a way, he loves all his computer systems like they're... well, maybe not his children, but surely his pets. JARVIS, however, is like... like one of his best friends, as awfully sad as that sounds.

Vision claims he's not JARVIS. Which would mean JARVIS is lost, and if that were the end of it, Tony would be more sure of how to feel. But when Vision speaks, JARVIS' voice comes out. And so far, personality-wise, it's difficult to tell them apart. And come on – nobody will give him credit for it, but he created an  _awesome_ AI and managed to transfer it to a body. He's allowed a tiny moment of smugness, isn't he? A small bit of awe at his own brilliance?

In conclusion, he's not sure. About anything, at the moment. But there's no time to linger on that thought. It's time to go and hopefully kick ass and FRIDAY is a class A girl. She'll make a fine replacement, it'll just take some getting used to. And when Vision makes the comment about Ultron hating Tony the most, he hears JARVIS so clearly from behind that wacky-looking burgundy hide, he thinks that the adjustment might be relatively pain-free.

 

**6\. On the way home.**

 

Technically, what just happened has to be considered a victory, Steve supposes. But there are so many buts to this victory, it feels like defeat. He's relieved, sure, because they've managed to avert a much bigger disaster, but apart from that...

He's just finished helping a bunch of distraught mothers and fathers find their children in the mass of people and is now taking a much needed water break. He sits in the midst of the desolation of the, up until a few hours ago, carefree inhabitants of Sokovia.

Dirt and soot covers the tear-streaked faces of now homeless children. All around him, people are nursing fractures and wounds. He can't see Wanda anywhere but last time he caught a glimpse of her, she was staring blankly at her brother's body, her eyes horribly dark and empty. Plenty of people are still crying, some hysterically, and he knows why. He hasn't tried to force back the knowledge that in spite of their efforts, they still weren't able to avoid civilian victims.

And then there's Pietro. Steve didn't expect his death to affect him this much. He thinks of this fast, strong, wisecracking, strong-willed,  _young_ man whom he personally never got to know very well, but who was all his sister had left. Who dedicated his life to something so meaningless as vengeance, only to be forced to realize that the right thing to do was to fight alongside the very man whose head he had been after, and choosing that over his revenge. Whose compassion and bravery they kept underestimating right up until he took not one, but eleven bullets for Clint.

He resists the desire to hide his face in his hands. Part of him actually wants to join in with the crying, exhaustion and hopelessness both threatening to take a relentless hold on him, but instead he straightens. He hasn't cried since Bucky... since Bucky. And now certainly isn't the time to change that. If he and his team-mates can't put on a brave face, there's nothing on this carrier to help fight the despair growing in these people like weeds.

He's not counting on Wanda right now. She has to be allowed to grieve. But the others. He looks around and is pleased to spot Natasha, handing out blankets and chocolate bars. Rhodey, he knows, is inside with Fury and some lawyers, getting started on the report. Clint is just getting to his feet after a longer recovery than the others seem to have needed, but Steve doesn't hold that against him at all. And, a distance away, Tony. He landed heavily on the carrier some fifteen minutes after it took off from the doomed city. Physically and emotionally drained, he didn't seem to even try to land gracefully. Hitting the ground clumsily with first one foot, then the other, he immediately fell onto all fours, panting and tearing off his iron mask, head hanging between his shoulders. Now, he's upright, in half his Iron Man suit, Gatorade in one hand and phone in the other. Steve gets up from his seat and walks up to him.

He means to ask where Thor and Bruce have gone, if it all went according to plan, if anyone on the ground was hurt by the debris from the explosion, what Vision is up to.

“You all right?” he ends up saying once he's next to Tony, who doesn't look up.

“No,” he says in his usual breezy tone. “But I'm working on it, hang on.”

He holds up a finger as he lifts his phone to his ear, and from what Steve gathers from just hearing Tony's side of the conversation that follows, he's discussing living accommodations for the survivors, talking about buying them an entire building or suburb or island or something. Steve smiles, faintly but approvingly. One good thing about Tony experiencing this bone-crushing guilt – he reaches the efficiency level of an entire ant army.

Steve decides to leave him to it. Physically, he seems unharmed. The same probably can't be said about his mental state, but nevertheless, he seems to have this under control.

Steve approaches the paramedics instead, to see if there is any other way for him to help. All of the Avengers who are currently capable of being useful already are, so there's no need for him to switch on the Captain mode. All he can do now is try to ease the effect of the devastating impact Ultron made.

 

**7\. On the aftermath.**

 

A couple of weeks later, things have finally started to settle down. Mass media isn't constantly up all of their asses, Tony has finished repairing the battle wounds inflicted on his suit, and the New Avengers are coming together nicely. They've signed the papers for a place to serve as headquarters, for which Tony is paying, as per usual - but it needs to be refurbished. In the meantime, a few of them are staying with Tony. Wanda, of course, who doesn't yet have a home in America. Vision, whose home has always been Stark Tower. And Steve, who is still searching for a place. He seems hesitant to call anywhere home.

Tony's pretty happy to have company. Well, to have the option of company. Stark Tower is a big building with plenty of room, sometimes a little too much room, he feels. FRIDAY helps, of course, although Tony accidentally calls her “JAR--- uh, FRIDAY” sometimes. But it's been happening less and less. However, no computer system, no matter how cleverly designed, can replace the company of a real human being. Which is why it's actually really, really nice to walk into the kitchen around dinner time and find Wanda cooking peppery stews, or at breakfast when Steve is already there making coffee. Or to walk into one of the computer labs and discover Vision, engulfed in the process of getting to know his simpler kin. It's taken Tony until now to realize how much lonelier the building has been since Pepper stopped taking his calls.

Yeah. She said she wanted a “break”. It's really okay, it's not the first time she says that, and he can't blame her. He knows he's, well, difficult. But there have been times when the only human interaction he's had in days has been with her. He's not used to not being able to rely on her when he needs to be slapped back to sanity.

Now, however, Steve is there, and he's never been one to back down from providing Tony with slaps. Proverbial ones, although he sometimes looks as if he'd be more than happy to give him a sharp, actual one. Interestingly, they don't get in fist fights now that the world isn't crumbling around them. They still drive each other crazy on occasion, but most of the time they... don't.

A lot of their time is spent working. Tony can waste an entire day tinkering and not notice, and Steve is frequently on the phone with Fury, or at his desk working on tactics as well as ways to improve the New Avengers' uniforms and skills. Yeah, he has his own desk. It's in the bedroom Tony assigned to him, on the 23 rd floor. Wanda's room is five floors up, and Vision, though hardly in need of his own room as he doesn't seem to require privacy of any kind, is on the 45 th floor. Officially. In reality, he floats around the building as he pleases, used to being everywhere at once. Nobody tries to stop him.

The kitchen smells unfamiliar one day when he walks in around lunch time, covered in oil stains. He's not surprised to see Wanda there, barefoot, in a too-large t-shirt and pyjama pants.

He goes up to look over her shoulder into the large pot she's got steaming on the stove.

“What are you making?”

“Pampushki,” she says, without elaborating.

“Right, of course,” he nods, with a look on his face that says she lost him at 'pam'.

“Potato dumplings,” she explains, smiling.

“Are you sure? It kinda sounds like something Paris Hilton would name her dog. Not that I would really mind you cooking her dog, I honestly think a vengeance upon her loved ones is long overdue after _House of Wax_ , it's just that chihuahuas have so little meat on them.”

“You'll like it, don't worry. It's stuffed with cheese, and I'm also making pot roast.”

He looks at her smooth little face.

“Can I pay you to stay here forever?”

She grins.

“No, but you can lay the table.”

He frowns.

“How did we get there from paying you to stay here forever?”

“You're okay, Tony, I'm on it,” says another voice and they both look around to see Steve open one of the cabinets and take out three plates.

“Thank you, Steve,” Wanda says and looks at Tony pointedly.

“Hey,” he protests, “can I remind both of you that I'm the one supporting this household, and it's a pretty damn big household. You ask me, I'm already providing so much dough I shouldn't have to help with any other cooking.”

“That was terrible,” Steve says, setting the plates on the table. “Have you not had coffee yet?”

“Sounds like someone doesn't want dessert.”

 

Vision joins a while later, but doesn't eat, of course. But the rest of them tuck in happily, and Tony, picky eater as he is, has to admit the pampushki is pretty good.

They're a motley crew, he thinks, looking around the table. They've all thought it before, but it's still fun to consider. The looks-like-a-cinnamon-roll-but-could-kill-you-in-a-heartbeat Brooklyn soldier. The mysterious witch without kin. The genius billionaire blah blah. And... whatever Vision can be described as. If this were a schoolyard, they'd be giving each other dirty stares from opposite sides of the swings, not having lunch together.

Tony pictures Wanda, huddled with her brother against the brick wall of the school building, watching through her lashes as the other kids play. That's the more obvious assumption, but as far as Tony knows, no one has asked her what her childhood was like. She wasn't always an orphaned outcast, certainly not always a witch, and Tony can easily picture a nine-year-old Wanda with a group of girlfriends in colorful clothes, jabbering away in whatever Slavic language is her first, tossing her hair. Laughing. Or red-cheeked and bright-eyed on a basketball court, holding the ball. Pietro stands exasperated behind her and the rest of the boys on the court are groaning and complaining that Pietro always brings his sister and how she shouldn't be allowed because the team that doesn't have her doesn't stand a chance.

Tony, of course, technically wouldn't be seen on the same schoolyard as Steve and Wanda because it'd be a public school. He remembers how he used to walk the halls of his fancy boarding school at the front of a pack of clever kids whose eyes radiated hunger and cockiness. He was the shortest of the bunch and didn't have a jawline at the time, but they all followed him around because they could tell that he was the type of kid you ought to follow.

Steve, he knows, was less than half the weight he is now before he was given the serum. Tony still has a hard time imagining him as this tiny, scrawny kid, but he finds that if he tries, his inner eye will show him grainy flashes of a skinny, even blonder little dork, drowning in a too-big hand-me-down baseball jacket. Probably with a pack of mouth-breathing jocks looming threateningly over him, ready to pound him into the ground for stubbornly defending one of the other geeks.

He watches Steve shovel down pot roast. At every meal, the guy eats like it's his first and Tony finds it encouraging. It's like solid ground under his feet, a reminder that in a lifestyle where nothing is certain, one thing is, at least, constant. Tony tends to push food around his plate sometimes, and it's a quality he knows he'd find annoying in anyone but himself.

Tony looks thoughtfully at how the shirt fabric strains around Steve's pecs and triceps and, chewing slowly, he just thinks that this is who he always was on the inside. The duckling who finally turned into a swan. Or something a little more manly.

Steve passes him the gravy, apparently thinking that's what he's staring at.

“Thanks,” Tony mutters, pretending he's right.

When they've all finished, Wanda clears the table before announcing she's going for a run. She leaves to go and change and Tony looks at his wristwatch. Still hours before he's done in the workshop for the day, but it's early. He's in no rush to get back.

“You want some coffee?” he asks Steve.

“Sounds perfect.”

Tony decides to make a whole pot. He does that a lot, even though he does have one of those state of the art espresso makers. One cup is rarely enough.

Steve doesn't take cream or sugar. Vision doesn't drink coffee (or anything else) and Tony likes it black, too, so he just brings two cups to the table along with the pot.

“Sure you don't want any?” he asks Vision, temptingly wiggling a cup in his hand.

He's not yet fully accepted the fact that Vision won't eat or drink anything. He supposes that since it's not a human body, it doesn't need that kind of fuel, but Tony would still drink coffee and scotch and eat cheeseburgers regardless of whether or not he needed the nutrients. On the other hand, if he'd never tried it in the first place, maybe he wouldn't feel inclined.

“It smells delicious,” Vision says politely, “but no thanks.”

Tony shrugs.

“More for me.”

He pours the two cups and passes one across the table.

He doesn't get people who don't like coffee. The heat and the bite of bitterness is more energizing than anything else he knows of. Steve, too, looks like he's enjoying it to a point where it's a little inappropriate – sighing, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, fingers dragging through his hair.

“Rough day, Cap?” he asks, amused.

Steve shakes his head.

“No more than usual.”

“Fury still on your ass about Thor and Banner?”

“Yeah, same old. I still don't know how we're supposed to locate them, and neither does he, which is probably why he won't leave me alone.”

“We can work something out together once I'm finished downstairs. Shouldn't be more than a week or so.”

Steve looks a little surprised that Tony's offering to work together, but just a little.

“Yeah, if you wouldn't mind. I could use all the brain power I can get, I feel like I've used up all of mine.”

“Hence the O-face you just got from one sip of coffee, I'm assuming.”

He's hoping Steve will blush, but he just looks confused.

“The what-face?”

“The O is short for orgasm,” Vision interjects helpfully.

There it is. Steve's blush is a really attractive one, a hot pink tinge that stretches across both cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Tony can't hold back a smirk.

“I was not--”, Steve tries, but apparently decides finishing the sentence won't do him any good.

“You were, a little bit,” Tony insists casually. “I mean, not that I'd know. But the face you were making was kinda what I would have assumed you'd...”

“Sir, I think Captain Rogers is embarrassed,” Vision interrupts, looking closely at Steve's face.

Steve huffs and Tony smirks wider.

“It's fine,” Steve says. “But yeah, I'd rather you'd shut up,” he adds in Tony's general direction.

Tony's actually grateful he was interrupted because who knows where that sentence could have gone had he not been stopped.

“Completely?” he asks. “Or just about the current subject?”

“'Subject' makes it sound like we were really talking about it.”

“I was.”

“Right, but could you stop?”

“Fine. So, giraffes, huh? I just found out yesterday that their necks only have 7 vertebras. They must be giant vertebras if they're to hold all of that up.”

Steve isn't amused, which Tony finds odd – he's being really cute, if he may say so himself, but apparently to no good.

“Okay,” he says patiently. “What do _you_ want to talk about?” 

Steve smiles and starts asking more about what Tony's doing in the workshop. So Tony tells him, and Steve tells him about his own work. From that, the conversation moves on to their sleeping habits, then workout habits and eventually their general life situations. It feels natural, then, to let Steve know that Pepper is out of the picture for now. Tony's been wondering whether or not this is something they would talk about, but now he feels like it is.

“Oh, man.” Steve shakes his head a little. “I'm sorry to hear that, Tony.”

Tony shrugs.

“Yeah, well. She seems to need a break every now and then, and I can't say I blame her. I'm impressed with how much she puts up with, really.”

Steve has to be credited for the fact that he doesn't say “so am I”. He looks at Tony with concern.

“But are you okay?”

“No, I am. Really.”

Is he? He stops to consider for a moment, wanting to make sure he doesn't lie to Steve unless necessary.

“I mean,” he adjusts, “I miss her and all that crap. But not as much as I expected to. I've been keeping busy, as you know, and I still have the great pleasure and honor of playing landlord and housemate to the three of you, and cleaning up all of your messes has kept me distracted.”

“We both know we're the ones cleaning up your messes and not the other way round. But I'm glad to hear you don't think we're just freeloading.”

Steve takes another sip of coffee before asking,

“Do you think she's coming back?”

Tony shakes his head.

“Don't know. She has before. But, uh. She gave off a different vibe this time, like she was sick of trying to make me better. The other times I've always had a vague feeling she could be convinced to come back if I made an effort to work on my flaws.”

“But you've never actually worked on your flaws,” Steve points out.

“Nope. Usually I say I will and then I offer her a raise, but she's not an idiot so it normally doesn't take her long to figure out I have no intention of working on anything. Guess we'll just have to wait and see if this is the time she gives up on trying to hold me to my promises.”

Steve is shaking his head and looking at Tony like he's trying to see inside his head.

“I don't get it. I know you think she's the best thing that's ever happened to you, and I agree. If she thinks you need improvement, and you agree with her on that, why wouldn't you, you know, try to improve? To keep her around?”

“That's why I'm seeing two shrinks.”

Tony suddenly wishes his coffee was Irish. And since it's well past 2PM, he goes to the liquor cabinet – the closest one, that is – and picks out a bottle.

Steve is waiting for a serious answer, but seems to know why Tony is taking his time, so he doesn't try to push. He declines when Tony holds out the bottle of scotch to him, even though it wouldn't affect him and Tony knows he likes the taste.

“No thanks. Still working.”

“Steve, you can't get drunk.”

Steve shrugs.

“It's about principles.”

“Oh, those.”

Tony doesn't understand him, but chooses not to argue this time.

“I've been told I'm a narcissist,” he says instead. “Which would explain it, I guess, because that would mean I'd have difficulty understanding or worrying about other people's feelings or needs, and that I exploit other people in order to reach my own goals. So that would be an easy way out – hey, I'm a narcissist, I can't help it. But I don't think that's what I am. Don't get me wrong, I know I definitely have narcissistic _tendencies_ , but I like to think I'm not the kind of guy who would deliberately used one of my favorite people like that.”

“Why, then?” Steve asks again.

Tony swallows a huge mouthful of spiked coffee.

“Best answer I got is I wish I knew, and I'm working on finding out.”

They're quiet for a stretch, silently drinking their coffee and brooding. Steve's eyes linger on him occasionally, he feels it, but he has nothing else to say in the matter.

“Should you really be drinking that?” Steve says eventually. “Aren't you going back to work after this?”

“It's just a single,” Tony says defensively. “I've worked on worse-”

“Yeah, Rhodey told me you almost sliced your hand off one of those times.”

“-and besides, it's in coffee, so it's neutral.”

“Yeah, that's sounds scientific. Look, Tony, aren't you kind of a danger to yourself in that workshop even without booze in you?”

“Uh, yeah, I'd say I'm _more_ of a danger to myself without booze in me.”

Steve sighs.

“I'm gonna pull the almost-hand-slicing card one more time.”

“Rhodey likes telling stories. If the punchline involves me losing or almost losing a body part, even better, regardless of whether or not that's really what happened.”

“So he lied?”

“...No. But the point is, I still have my hand, and you're being a total goody-two-shoes.”

“What, because I don't think you should be drinking before operating heavy machinery?”

“You think this is drinking, you haven't seen me drink.”

“I have. That time you tried to throw Nat over your shoulder, Jesus, you must really have a death wish. And at O'Reilly's, when you thought you could finish every flavor of chicken wings they had on the menu. Oh, and that time you spent 25 minutes trying to lift Thor's hammer.”

“You tried to lift it too that time, and also, did I or did I not participate in taking out Ultron's first little helpers, like, five minutes after that? And I was only buzzed, imagine what I could have done if I'd been actually drunk.”

Steve sighs again and apparently decides to drop the whole thing. Tony's sure he never even really thought this one drink would affect Tony's work in the slightest, he probably just wanted something to reprimand him for.

“You know,” Steve says after another short pause, “a common narcissist trait is to over-estimate your own abilities.”

“Oh my _God,_ Rogers, fine, if you're so worried about me being able to hold my liquor, I'll throw my coffee out.”

“I meant the hammer, not the drink. Did you really think you'd be able to lift it?”

“Hey. It could have just as easily been me as anyone else in the room.”

“Did you?”

“Well, yeah, kind of,” Tony admits. “I figured there was some weird balance to it and that it was probably about figuring out how to get the right leverage. Didn't you think you could lift it?”

Steve shrugs.

“I don't really know what I expected. I just wanted to try. It would have been fun to see the look on Thor's face if one of us made it.”

Tony smiles at the thought. Then he comes to think of something.

“Well, we kind of did get to see it. Not at that specific time, but later on, you know, with Vision.”

Steve remembers.  
“Oh, right.”

“Which you have me to thank for, really. You know, because if I hadn't made Ultron, he never would have created Vision's body and we never would have got to see Thor's jaw drop.”

Steve snorts.

“Yeah, sure, thanks a lot for that. Six weeks of bruises, sore muscles, sleep deprivation, headaches, near death-experiences and anxiety from trying to hunt Ultron down was definitely all worth it.”

It's actually very sweet that Steve chooses not to mention the hundreds of civilian casualties.

“You don't bruise,” Tony replies, also unwilling to bring up the pointless deaths.

“I wasn't just talking about myself.”

“And you don't get sore muscles.”

“I do, but it doesn't last for long. I bruise, too, by the way, it just heals very quickly. But that wasn't the point, you always miss the point.”

“I know what your point was, I just ignored it in favor of pointing out the flaws in your statement.”

“Ignoring the point is worse than missing the point.”

“No, it isn't. You miss the point, you're an idiot. You ignore the point, you're just trying to lighten the mood.”

“That's your way of looking at it.”

“And I bet you're about to tell me yours,” Tony mutters, but loud enough that Steve can hear it very clearly.

He can tell this conversation is about to go straight to hell, and thinks ruefully of the way it could have gone if he hadn't mentioned Ultron. They would have parted amiably and maybe had dinner together, or breakfast the next day, friendship still intact.

Maybe he is an idiot.

“Yeah.” Steve makes no attempt to deflect the argument, which is a sign of how tired he is – he'll never back down from arguing for what he believes in, but he's usually still level-headed and will avoid proper arguments when he can. “You miss the point, you're maybe a little oblivious or egocentric. You ignore the point, you're usually an immature jerk who can't face the critique that's directed towards you.”

“Whoa. Okay. I'm gonna need an even bigger head if you want me to make room for all of the names you just called me.”

“I was just pointing out the flaws in your personality,” Steve deadpans, coldly using Tony's own words against him.

“ _Dude._ What the hell is your problem today? Is it that time of the month?”

“That's original. Also, always a douchebag thing to say.”

“I only care about being original in the workshop and in the sack.”

“Ugh, can you spare me the bedroom comments?” Steve suddenly looks exhausted.

“Right, sorry, I forgot Captain Celibacy blushes at the very implication of coitus. What's the deal with that, anyway? Is there some kind of trauma there I should know about? Did something fall off when they gave you the serum? Is that why you're so sensitive about it?” He's sure Steve remembers that Tony knows that 'something' is still very much attached and in full working order, so he's just bullshitting now and they both know it, but he's gathering momentum like an avalanche and rambles on. “Or is it, like, a trigger for you? Did the people who made America's Sweetheart not want him to have any kind of sexual urges in case it distracted him from perfecting his pageant smile, so they Clockwork Oranged you into feeling nauseated at the very mention of a body part below the neck or any activity that's normally done with the door closed? Can I say any word related to that and make you go hide in a corner? Nipple? Knee cap? _Vulva?_ ”

“Oh my God, Tony, shut up!” It's the first time Tony's heard Steve tell anyone to shut up in a non-friendly way, and he thinks it's probably not a good sign. “What even – what are you even trying to pull here?”

“I'm _trying_ to pull something real out of you, Rogers. Something that isn't about work or duties or righteousness or moping about the past.”

Steve's eyes widen in disbelief.

“Moping? You think I'm _moping?_ ”

“Kind of, yeah.”

“Are you – you have to be kidding, you just have to be. What exactly would you call what _you're_ doing?”

“Meaning?” Tony's eyes are flashing dangerously, steel-like.

“Isn't your entire way of life based on what Howard used to do? Would you have done any of it if he'd still been alive?”

“Still not sure what you're getting at.”

Steve is looking at him like he knows the next thing he's about to say will stir up a shit-storm, but is determined to say it anyway.

“Are you just doing it out of guilt? To honor the memory of someone you never appreciated while he was alive?”

_Wow_ .

Tony  _knows_ Steve is trying to push his buttons. He shouldn't let him. But damn it, his buttons are pushed.

They're both already standing up rather than sitting on the bar stools set around the kitchen island, and after a moment of challengingly staring into each other's eyes, Tony calmly sets his cup on the table and goes to stand inside the circle of Steve's personal space.

“Real thin ice, Cap.”

Steve cocks an eyebrow, unyielding.

“Am I wrong?”

Tony shrugs, eyes never leaving Steve's.

“Tell you what, I'll answer that question the day you stop mooning over that photo of that Barnes kid you carry around everywhere you go. Your spangly uniform doesn't have pockets, Steve, where do you keep it at those times?”

Steve's face remains stony. He's not scowling, there's not a single upset crease on his face. But his chest pushes out ever so slightly and he suddenly seems taller, his voice deadly calm and quiet when he says,

“Leave Bucky out of this.”

They've stepped so far into each other's space their chests are all but touching, and Tony's senses are amped up like he's getting ready for a real fight. He thinks he can feel the electricity of Steve's heightened pulse. Imagines he smells like adrenaline. Or something else he can't identify, but it smells... good.

They've squared up to each other like this plenty of times before, but Tony doesn't remember registering how Steve's smelled on similar occasions.

“You take a shot at my old man, I take a shot at your Luigi. Eye for an eye, Rogers.”

“My what? You know what, never mind. Just leave him out of it, we clear on that?”

Tony looks Steve up and down. His eyes linger for a moment on Steve's nipples, vaguely visible through his long-sleeved t-shirt.

“Luigi,” he repeats, looking Steve in the eye again and ignoring the other part of what he just said. “Yet another pop culture reference you don't get because, oh right, you're ancient and you know what, so is your little photo and the person on it and last thing I heard, he doesn't remember knowing you.” He almost flinches at the harshness of his own words. Jeez, how did they end up here? “You were friends 70 years ago, do you think maybe it's time to realize you're not friends now?”

There's a spark of real rage and hurt in the infinite calm of Steve's eyes.

It escalates from there.

Tony's not even sure what they say to each other. He knows they're shouting, and he knows hurtful comments are bursting back and forth between them like gunfire. They never throw a punch, but they keep their threatening postures, both too proud to back down. Tony childishly shoves Steve once, but he doesn't shove back, just looks at him warningly.

He remembers fragments.

“...never known anyone so full of themselves...”

“...impossible to work with and even more impossible to live with...”

“You did NOT just...”

“Why the fuck are you smirking right now?”

“If you say his name one more time...”

“...why don't you just pull my pigtails, then...”

“Jesus, not this again...”

Steve is the one who walks out, in the end, sick of an argument that's getting nowhere and has no purpose. It's just dumb and unnecessary, is what it is, and Steve is right to leave.

Tony stays in the kitchen for a couple of minutes after Steve is gone, finishing his cold coffee drink. He feels defeated. Deflated. Not at all angry anymore.

He looks at his watch again. They've been arguing for so long, he's lost track of time, but it's time to get back to work. He was only supposed to have a quick lunch break.

He sighs and cards his fingers through his hair a final time before dragging his ass back to the workshop.

 

**8\. On accidentally not sleeping alone.**

 

Tony's watching  _Jurassic Park_ in his bedroom late that evening when there's a knock on the door. He hopes it's Steve, and he's pretty sure it is because he can't imagine either of the other two would stop by for a visit. Maybe Vision, but he wouldn't knock.

“It's open,” he calls without taking his eyes off the screen.

The door opens, and it is indeed Steve. He's dressed in sweats and undershirt, as if he was about to go to bed before deciding to go visit Tony, although Tony figures he's here because he already was in bed but couldn't sleep thinking about their argument. Probably wants to clear the air. And Tony's totally on board. Even though all evidence points to the opposite, he hates arguing with Steve. It leaves him with this terrible gnawing feeling and if Steve hadn't been standing here just now, Tony would probably have been outside his door within he next half hour. The difference, of course, being that he wouldn't be there to apologize, but to call them both idiots, crack wise and hope Steve would know that meant he was sorry.

They stare at each other for a moment. Steve looks uncertain, and large.

“Hey,” Tony finally says, unsure of whether he thinks Steve should be allowed to wear a wife-beater because it's a little upsetting how flattering it is, and why is he thinking about that when he should be thinking about how to make amends for what he said earlier? “Can't sleep?”

“Yeah.” Steve ducks his head, scratching at the back of it like a much younger boy. “Listen, I wanted to...” He hesitates, throws a hand up. “I'm sorry about earlier. I was way out of line.”

Tony feels like this is a good time to put his popcorn away, maybe sit up a little straighter. He does, and braces himself. He doesn't do this a lot, and he's not a fan. But this time he has to admit it's called for.

“Yes, shame on you and whoever taught you manners. Jesus, Rogers, how dare you say the truth out loud?”

Steve opens his mouth, but Tony talks over him.

“Look, you were being a dick, I'm not gonna argue about that, and some of the things you said were uncalled for, but you weren't out of line. You were right. And...”, he sighs, “I'm sorry too.”

There. That didn't hurt. At least not a lot.

“You were meaner,” he continues, “and I was contemplating sneaking into your room later tonight and put your hand in a bowl of warm water, but at least what you said was true, which can't be said about me.”

Probably should have left it at 'I'm sorry'.

Steve is smiling, though, so Tony has to assume that last bit didn't ruin the apology.

“So you don't think I'm impossible to work and live with?”

“I've been working and living with you for a while now, sometimes even successfully, so clearly it's possible. Even...”

He hastily stops himself. He was about to say something he would have regretted.

But it's too late. Steve looks curious.

“Even what?”

Tony looks at the veins on Steve's forearms for a little while, trying to think of a lie, but his mind is blank. He turns his gaze to his own feet, hoping it will be less distracting than Steve's arms, but too much time has passed and now Steve will know he's lying even if he does manage to think of something. Jesus Christ, he's positive his head has never been this void of thoughts.

He tilts his head back against the headboard, resigned.

“Even... enjoyable sometimes.”

There's an unbearably suspenseful silence during which Tony keeps looking at his feet until he can't take it anymore. He turns to look at Steve again. He looks almost incredulous, and there's a small, annoying smile on his face when he eloquently asks,

“What?”

Tony turns away again.

“I struggled to say it the first time, don't make me do it again.”

“Sorry. I just, I thought the only time I'd hear something like that from you would be over one of our dead bodies.”

“Chipper as always. What can I say, I've had three scotches. And velociraptors always put me in a good mood.”

“Velociraptors?” There's a scream from the TV and Steve looks in the direction of the noise. “Oh.” He frowns. “What are you watching?”

“ _Jurassic Park._ Seen it yet?”

As expected, Steve shakes his head, still looking at the screen in mild confusion.

“Oh, you're in for a treat. Come on, I'll scoot.”

Steve stares at him as he moves over to make more room for a second person on the bed.

“What, really?”

Tony shrugs, keeping his eyes wide and innocent. To be honest, even he can't say what's gotten into him, but as always, he rolls with it.

“Yeah. It's a lot more fun watching it when I get to point out the plot holes to someone.”

“But... wouldn't it be weird for me to be in your bed?”

“You'll be _on_ my bed, not in it, and it's not like it's a first for us.”

Granted, the first time  _was_ weird in the sense that it ended with Tony helplessly doing the five-knuckle shuffle in the shower with Steve just outside, but Tony isn't about to bring that up.  
And actually, for once, Steve doesn't argue until he's blue in the face, but looks at the screen again for a little while, then shrugs and says,

“Okay.”

The mattress shifts as Steve sits, swings his legs up and slides back until he can lean against the headboard. Tony gets that feeling again, the one he's not used to but had last time he was this close to Steve – stomach light, chest constricted.

“Did I see popcorn?” Steve asks. “I've already brushed my teeth, but...”

Tony hands them to him wordlessly.

“Thanks. Quick recap?”

“Dude re-creates dinosaurs, turns 'em into a theme park, shit hits the fan.”

Steve nods.

Tony's bed is big, certainly a lot bigger than the first one they shared, but Steve is still sitting close enough that the skin on his bare arms brushes against Tony's every time he reaches for more popcorn. At first Tony's a little intimidated to do the same now that the bowl is sat on Steve's lap, but pulls himself together. It's his popcorn, goddammit, and it's a bowl, not Steve's actual crotch.

They watch the movie, but not quietly. The muffled crunches of their chewing cuts through what would have been silence, and sometimes Steve asks a question, or Tony briefly explains something. The room is dark but the blueish light from the huge screen flickers across their faces, reflects in their eyes, but they're not aware because they don't look at each other. Once, they accidentally and ridiculously grab each other's hands in the popcorn bowl. Steve apologizes absent-mindedly while putting a handful of popcorn in his mouth and Tony complains that Steve 'took the one he had his eye on'.

They've been living together for weeks, known each other for years, yet they still haven't watched a movie together until now. That's a little weird.

Tony glances at Steve's face now and then, at how absorbed he is and how his blue eyes are alert as always, taking everything in. His hair is a little messy, presumably from lying in bed before he came to Tony's room, and Tony finds that he likes it, appreciates the contrast to the infuriatingly clean-cut, clean-shaven, Sunday school look that Steve usually sports.

Eventually, the credits start rolling, but Tony's not tired.

“FRIDAY?”

“Sir?”

“Could you put on the sequel?”

“ _The Lost World?_ ”

“No, I was thinking _New Moon_.”

“There's a sequel?” Steve asks skeptically while the credits are cut off by the introduction to _The Lost World_.

“Oh, there's plenty. 21st century life lesson number 146: if it makes money, it has sequels. If it doesn't, it has an action figure, and probably an app.”

The movie starts, and this time they're quieter. Steve has caught up on the plot, so he's stopped asking questions. Tony is the one occasionally breaking the silence by, with restrained smugness, pointing out technical mistakes and mocking the dialogue.

After a little while, Steve starts fiddling with the pillow behind his back, squirming.

Tony looks at him, letting his eyes ask the question.

“I'm fine,” Steve says in response to Tony's look, “my back's just a little tight.”

“Oh. One second.”

Tony grabs a couple more pillows from his side of the bed, and hands them to Steve.

“Here. If you scoot down and put them under your head... yeah, like that. Better?”

“Much. Thanks.”

Steve is all but lying down in the bed, three pillows now propping up his head so he can comfortably watch the movie. It's nice seeing him relaxed. 98% of the time, the stick up the guy's ass seems so long he ought to have a bump on the top of his head.

Steve's left arm is behind his neck and Tony somehow can't stop surreptitiously looking at his armpit out of the corner of his eye. It's one of those body parts that freak you out when you think about certain people having them – it seems too  _irrelevant_ a body part for a super soldier, just like earlobes or a belly button. But it's right there, looking almost sweet with its little tufts of dark hair, a lot darker than the hair on his head. Tony wants to prod it with a finger and watch Steve jump, even though he's not actually sure if he's ticklish, and also does his armpit hair match the hair between his legs?

Dinosaurs, he has to think. Watch the dinosaurs.

They've finished the popcorn, which is fine. There was plenty to begin with, so they're both pretty full. And since Tony has finished his scotch, too, he leaves for a minute to go brush his teeth, and when he gets back he feels sleepy and satiated as he settles back down on the bed.

“Hey,” Steve suddenly says. “Thanks for letting me hang out.”

His tone is unembarrassed, kind. Genuinely appreciative, like he rarely is when it comes to Tony.

“No problem,” he says, a little surprised, but pleasantly so.

“It's nice,” Steve continues, eyes stubbornly on the screen, “you know, to be able to do things like this, and not have to live entirely inside your own head all the time. With everything that's going on in there – for both of us, I'm guessing.”

Tony snorts, but in a friendly sort of way.

“I thought you loved being stoic and brooding. It's kind of your trademark. Well, one of them.”

Steve huffs.

“I guess. But one of yours is being a playboy, and to be perfectly honest, since I came to live here, I haven't seen any signs of you living up to that. So I guess we're even.”

Tony hums.

“You're right. I'll have to start working on getting back on that horse. Or, if I can have it my way, getting the horse back on me.”

“Oh God, Tony, filter, remember?”

“Filters are for coffee. Watch the movie, you're missing an important scene.”

They fall silent again, and after that, Tony is aware of how Steve responds in fewer and fewer syllables to his comments, eventually just humming or grunting. He considers shaking him awake and sending him back to his room, but embarrassingly, he doesn't want him to leave just yet. So he shuts up for a while, and a few minutes later, he can tell from Steve's breathing that he's properly asleep.

For a moment, he looks at his companion. Ridiculously strong and golden and flawless, he sleeps as if there has never been a war of any kind, no friends or allies lost.

Tony stays awake a little longer. He finishes watching the first sequel and starts on the second, planning to wake Steve when it's over, but ten minutes in, he's asleep too.

 

**9\. On realizing what you need AND ACTING ON IT.**

 

Laundry detergent. Sweat. Sandalwood. Cheap shampoo.

This is not how his bed usually smells, nor any of the women he's been with. But it's still familiar.

He doesn't open his eyes, but registers the nature of the light through his eyelids – pale and grey, which means it's morning, but early.

He inhales again, and it comes back to him. Right. Steve fell asleep in his bed.

He sends a thought of gratitude to Steve for leaving so stealthily. He'll probably never cease to be amazed at how someone so heavy can move with the lightness of a cat.

Then he freezes.

If... if Steve left... then what's he clinging to like a baby monkey? And what's that scratchy stuff against his nose and forehead?

He opens his eyes.

Oh, hell.

Steve is still on his back, chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. Tony can easily tell, because his own arm is wrapped around that chest. He can also tell Steve needs to shave, because it's his stubble scratching Tony's face where it's buried in the crook of his neck. On top of that, Tony has slung a leg over one of Steve's so that they're overlapping. And this time--  _really?_ This time Tony is the one with his erection uncomfortably jammed against his sleeping partner. He can feel blood pounding in it, chafing against Steve's hip.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

He'd give most of his fortune if it meant he could reverse time and be born with a vagina instead. Furiously, he thinks about how dicks are stupid in such a ludicrous amount of ways. And again, he's the first to wake up, so  _again_ , he's the one to have to try and decide what to do about it.

Except, he realizes slowly, something woke him up, and it wasn't an alarm, or the light.

“Tony,” Steve rasps, and hearing it, Tony instantly knows it's the second time Steve says his name.

The first time is what woke him.

He doesn't feel panicked, like he did last time, just resigned. Apparently they're destined to always be uncomfortable around each other. Every time they manage to actually enjoy each other's company, something throws them off, whether it's an apocalypse or an inappropriate chub.

“You awake?” Steve nudges.

“Yeah,” Tony croaks back, voice scratchy from sleep. “Uh. Okay. Let me...”

He gently disentangles and peels himself away from Steve, moving back until none of their body parts are touching.

“Sorry about the death grip.”

Steve laughs stiffly.

“Don't worry about it. I guess I owe you for last time.”

There's a pause before Steve continues,

“Um, so. Thanks for letting me crash. I didn't mean to fall asleep here, I just...”

“Yeah, no, I know. I fall asleep in the workshop all the time, I know how easy it is.”

“Right.”

“Can't explain the cuddling, though.”

“You don't have to.”

“Maybe my subconscious mistook you for Pepper.” Tony isn't listening. “Although I don't see how, you're like 4 times as wide.”

Steve laughs again, but more genuinely this time.

“I should have known you used to sleep clinging onto Pepper and not the other way round. That actually makes so much sense.”

“It does?” Tony is momentarily thrown off course.

“Yeah. I don't know, the way you always act like you don't need anyone...”

“Not an act, Spandex-Man.”

“...I wouldn't be surprised if your subconscious betrayed you,” Steve rudely ignores his relevant input, “and had you hanging onto people like they were the last safe place on earth.”

“Well, gosh darn, you see right through me. Now I have to come up with a new act.”

Steve smiles at the ceiling.

In the silence that follows, Tony's gaze slides down from Steve's face. His eyes travel along his neck and torso, to where his belly button can be sort of seen through his thin wife-beater.

To where the soft fabric of his pants is stretched out, tenting at the crotch.

Look away, he tells himself firmly, but he can't. Honest to God can't.

One of Steve's legs are bent, probably in an attempt to hide what's going on down there, but it's not entirely fulfilling that task.

Tony's still hard, too. Normally when he wakes up with a boner, it's doesn't even last until coffee, but it hasn't been that long and also wouldn't it be just his luck if his body chose now to insist on staying alert for probably the entire fucking day.

And now Steve is looking at him. He's looking at him and Tony quickly averts his eyes from Steve's junk but Steve follows his gaze to where it was set up until a second ago and Tony is so. Royally. Fucked.

Steve looks at his groin for a moment and then looks at Tony and then, somehow, they have eye contact and apparently Tony has a death wish because why else would he be looking Steve in the eye when he's just caught him ogling his package?

They stare at each other for a moment. Tony glimpses something behind the blue of Steve's eyes, but it's embarrassment, not blood thirst.

“I should probably go.”

There's an anxious crease between Steve's eyebrows as he makes for a hasty exit, but before he's even sat up properly, and certainly long before Tony's figured out what the hell his plan is, Tony has reached out and grabbed hold of Steve's wrist.

Steve stops dead in a half-sitting position.

Great.

It's all Tony can do not to close his eyes and start cursing himself into a pulp. He acts on impulse all the time, and a lot of the time it gets him exactly where he wants to go, but one does not simply grab Captain America by the wrist like the lead female character in a silent movie keeping her lover from leaving.

But hey. Isn't that kind of exactly what he's trying to do?

Shocked, he stares, once again, into Steve's face.

They're not lovers. Definitely not. But fuck, Tony wants to be. Maybe not exactly  _lovers_ , Jesus Christ, maybe not even friends with benefits. But he can no longer block out the thought that he wants this guy, wants to take his shirt off and find the sensitive spots on his upper body, to finally see what's really hiding in those sweatpants. Just this once. For science. And if once becomes a few more times, or a bunch of times, then that's probably going to be awesome, but if it's just this once, he can definitely live with that, too.

Part of him has known this for a while. It was pretty obvious after that morning at the farm house. He hasn't actively tried to deny it, it's just that ever since it happened, there have constantly been other things keeping him from properly reflecting on it. Now, however, looking at Steve, having instinctively grabbed him to keep him from leaving, Tony has no choice but to let the realization hit him. Huh. Who would have thought? They say there's a thin line between love and hate, but it seems there's also a thin line between finding someone unbearable and finding them unbearably hot.

Right. So, once you've come to terms with the fact that you want to jump Captain America's bones, what do you tell him?

He has to say  _something,_ and it has to be soon, because the silence is getting really tense with Tony squeezing Steve's arm.

“You don't have to. Leave, I mean.”

The crease between Steve's eyebrows is still there, but his eyes grow wider and Tony can't tell if he's appalled or just surprised. He didn't really allow himself time to think through whether Steve wants the same thing he does, which he now kind of wants to punch himself for, unless Steve does it first which, at this point, doesn't seem too unlikely.

But there's no punching. Several seconds later, he remains unbruised.

“I... what?”

There's genuine confusion in Steve's voice, and also, Tony thinks, a little bit of dread? Or something similar to it. But one thing he's absolutely certain he doesn't hear in Steve's stuttering is disgust. Well. That might not be the same as encouragement, but it's also not  _dis_ couragement.

“I'm just saying,” Tony clarifies, although he honestly doesn't think he could have been any clearer, “you could, you know, stay.”

In a moment of astonishing boldness, he emphasizes his words by giving Steve's forearm, the one he's already holding on to, a light stroke of his thumb.

He watches Steve's expression change. It's literally visible. The crease disappears. His mouth falls open. His pupils dilate. Tony's got his point across, and because Steve's face is pretty much a window to his every emotion, it's clear as day that his point has been well received.

That, on the other hand, is encouragement.

Tony's chest aches with relief. He was never really afraid that Steve would hit him, but the humiliation of being mistaken  _and_ shot down would have been awful. He really wasn't sure what to expect – there  _was_ the farm house incident, but that could easily have meant nothing more than Steve's body doing dumb stuff while his brain wasn't in the game. After that, Tony can't say he's really felt a vibe, but maybe he has. He's not sure about anything at this point, but at least he gets to be relieved he's not alone in wanting this.

Then again, now there are other things to be nervous about. And Tony realizes with a pang that he actually is.

Weird.

He  _never_ gets nervous. Just excited, and determined.

But his heart pounds.

His mouth feels dry.

Yeah. Definitely more than just excited.

He's never been too opposed to the idea of getting it on with a dude, but this will be the first time it actually happens, and if he's freaking out a little then surely that's not unexpected.

Steve is looking at him and he seems unnerved too.

“Tony,” he says, “do you... I'm not reading this wrong, am I?”

Oh – Tony has to reel himself in. In Steve's head, the question of whether they're hot for each other still needs answering. Tony should have known he'd be the type to need vocal consent.

“No,” he therefore replies, “but you're not reading fast enough.”

He puts a hand around the back of Steve's neck and pulls him down.

Steve gives a muffled  _mmph_ when their lips mash against each other, but soon composes himself and then it's a proper kiss instead of just a hurried crashing of mouths.

Kissing Steve Rogers turns out to be a bit of a revelation. It feels foreign at first, the rough scratch of overnight stubble against Tony's chin, the firmness and sureness, how Steve completely lacks the caution and hesitance of basically every single woman Tony's made out with for the first time. And the overall  _masculinity_ of it all, how they silently battle for dominance, comes as no surprise but it still takes some getting used to.

Most of all, however, it's just really, really freaking  _good_ . Tony's bottom lip gets caught between both of Steve's, and it's intense but not slobbery or frantic. Tony likes tongue, but he also kind of enjoys being teased, so the fact that Steve stubbornly holds back on the tongue action is both frustrating and brilliant. Tony tries to pull him in deeper but Steve just grins into his mouth, the fucker, and keeps holding back.

He tries to pace himself, to not push his face against Steve's, to not buck his hips even though he feels like growling through the effort it takes.

He has to say that in the likely event that Steve is inexperienced, it doesn't show. His languid pace feels like it comes from patience, not hesitance. Tony wonders whether he really does have it all together, or if he's secretly losing it and just really determined to keep his cool so Tony won't give him a hard time.

Doesn't matter, he thinks.

He grabs Steve's waist with both hands, feeling the taut muscle of his flanks, and thinks that it's a damn waste for him to ever wear a shirt.

 

Steve, meanwhile, is in fact wavering between confident and panicked. Because on one hand, holy hell, this is so immensely satisfying it's like angels are singing. There's no doubt in his mind that this is what he needs – what they've both been needing since that morning, worlds away, in the countryside. But on the other hand, what the hell are they doing?

Ever since that time on the quinjet, he's known his body was smarter than his mind when it decided to rub against Tony's ass. While it did happen by accident, the arousal he felt wasn't a coincidence, nothing that lingered from a dream he'd just had or came attached to his morning wood. He's attracted to Tony, and he's had time to wrap his head around that.

As it turns out, however, the step from knowing you want to get with someone to actually getting with them is pretty big. Steve has only been skirting the idea in his mind, unwilling to get too familiar with it as he figured it would never happen, and if it did, it'd probably feel like such a bad idea that neither of them would want to go through with it anyway. But the thing is, it doesn't feel like a bad idea at all. It just feels like it makes sense. Like they're tending to a primal need they've been carrying around, one that's been clouding their sight.

Tony's hands are a little rough on his waist, and it's getting more and more difficult to think clearly.

“Cap,” Tony mumbles all of a sudden and Steve swallows a gasp, God, he never knew being called that in the bedroom would be such a turn-on, “a little less internal conversation and a little more action, please.”

One corner of Steve's mouth twists.

“That obvious?”

“Please. I can _smell_ the wheels turning.”

“Sorry. I just... how are you not overthinking this?”

Tony's pupils have leaked into his irises so that the usual brown of his eyes is almost entirely black. He shrugs.

“I have,” he admits. “And I'm sick of it. Fuck it. What's the worst that could happen? That we're awkward around each other for a while? Dear me, that _would_ be a disaster, you and I are _never_ awkward around each other. Dude, a couple weeks ago you threw me through a glass pane. A few days before that, your dick was in my ass crack and it turned me on so much I had to go and jay-oh in the bathroom right after. And, you know, you've _always_ kind of been like a needle in my eye, except you're really easy on the eye, and I know you sometimes think I'm the worst human being you've basically ever met, but all of that just makes me even more confident that releasing some of all this built-up tension couldn't possibly make things any worse.”

Steve is stunned for a little while. Both because he wasn't expecting an entire speech in response to what he said, and because he thinks Tony's right. Also, once he's put two and two together and realized what Tony means by 'jay-oh'...

“ _That's_ why you ran away so fast? And _that's_ what you were doing in that bathroom?”

“Technically I ran away because I was freaking out. And I wasn't lying, I really did take a shower. It just wasn't _all_ I did.”

Steve bites back an incredulous snigger, but makes a face that gives it away.

“Whatever,” Tony scoffs, but not as convincingly as usual. “Are we done talking yet?”

“No, one more thing.”

Tony rolls his eyes, but at least he keeps quiet.

“Listen,” Steve says in that confidential way only he knows how, “I've just learned to like you.”

“Gee, you're the star of my existence too.”

“I'm just saying, it's progress. Don't you think this might ruin that?”

At this, Tony looks genuinely puzzled.

“How, exactly, would me getting you off make you like me less?”

Steve ducks his head, smiles. He takes a moment to answer.

“Yeah, I guess you're right.”

When Tony doesn't respond and remains completely still, Steve looks back up and finds him staring at him in astonishment.

“What did you just say?”

Steve laughs.

“I said you're right.”

“Oh, fuck,” Tony moans, like it's the hottest thing he's ever heard, and pulls Steve back in.

And Steve just doesn't have the energy and, least of all, the will to restrain himself anymore.

Which is just as well because Tony starts tugging at the hem of his undershirt, indicating that he wants to take it off.

Steve takes a deep, bracing breath and sits up to let him.

 

When Steve sits up, Tony follows. They kneel in front of each other and Steve raises his arms while Tony drags his hands up Steve's waist and ribs, taking his shirt with him. He strips it off over Steve's head, tosses it carelessly to the side and then Steve is shirtless and Tony almost feels blinded. This guy is nothing but muscle and soft skin and golden hair. Tony would compare him to a Greek god if it weren't for the fact that

a) Steve gives life to the word Aryan and

b) Tony isn't the lamest person on the planet.

Then there's not much more time for him to think about what Steve looks like because Steve's already in the process of taking off Tony's shirt. Oh. It's easy to forget that, while Steve most of the time gives the impression of being about as sexually savvy as a catholic swivel chair, he's also a guy who takes charge and puts things in motion.

Tony goes with it, raising his arms just like Steve did a second ago, and it's not long before Steve casually flings Tony's t-shirt back over his own shoulder.

They're silent for a moment, just looking.

Tony's glad he's never been prone to self-consciousness. He likes his scars, particularly the neat one where the arc reactor used to be, and he's got enough common sense that he knows that the presence of someone bigger doesn't make him skinny. Anyone who's seen him knows he isn't. Besides, the look on Steve's face can only be described as appreciative.

Then Steve's hands are on his shoulders, gently pushing. Tony takes the hint and lies back, supporting himself on his elbows at first, but Steve keeps pushing so he gives in and lies down completely, sinking into the pillows with Steve more or less on top of him. It's new and, honestly, a little unnerving, this considerable weight holding him in place. He still has to get used to the feeling of being smaller than the one he's with. However, Steve's mouth is back on his and Jesus fuck now Steve's tongue is finally in his mouth and they both just really need to stop thinking already.

Steve tastes like warm milk. The back of his ribs, Tony soon learns, is an erogenous zone. When touched, it earns him a small squeeze around his waist, where Steve's hands are planted. So far, Steve is solely focused on kissing, holding his hands still, but his calm becomes transparent when Tony runs his hands down to grab two handfuls of his ass and Steve's knee-jerk response is to thrust against Tony's hip. Tony smirks, skillfully concealing the jolt in his stomach when he feels the insistence of Steve's erection.

“Shut up,” Steve mutters through the kiss even though Tony hasn't said anything.

He obeys anyway, refrains from vocalizing any of the witty remarks that pop up in his mind. This is one of those rare occasions when trying to be clever doesn't top his list of priorities.

The slide of Steve's tongue against his is beyond delicious. Tony decides, again, to slow down, take his time to enjoy it. For a long while, he tries not to grope Steve too much, caressing his back and shoulders while waiting for him to make the next move.

Steve seems to be testing his patience. His hands remain still on Tony's waist for a long time before he seems to decide to stop being a dick and actually touch him.

The way they're lying, Steve kind of needs his left arm to hold himself up, so he can only make use of his right hand. He slides it up along Tony's side, tracing along a long and jagged scar. Then he strokes Tony's nipple with his thumb and huffs smugly when Tony says a soft  _ah_ and said nipple hardens instantly. Tony's chest in general is sensitive, nipples in particular. His stomach is even better, and if Steve were to... yep, there he goes, like he's reading Tony's mind, letting his hand follow the line of dark hair from his chest to his belly button. It tickles a little and causes his insides to churn, in a good way. Tony sucks in a breath when Steve's fingers keep trailing down all the way to the waistline of his pants, but then he either changes his mind or he was teasing to begin with, because the hand changes course and goes back up along his side. Tony wants to smack him on the head.

By the time Steve's thumb finds its way into the dip next to Tony's hipbone, Tony feels like his head is full of cotton. His hips jerk once, out of his control, seeking friction, and Steve pins them down with that one hand which is ugh. Hot.

“I've been meaning to go slow,” Tony mutters accusingly. “But you're making it really hard.”

“You mean difficult?” Steve is smiling at what he assumes is just an unfortunate choice of words.

“No.”

Steve snorts a little laugh, and Tony interprets that as a green light to stop going slow. To be fair, he was never really given a red light in the first place.

His hands squirm their way past the elastic of both of Steve's waistbands, roaming not-so-gently over his rounded butt cheeks. Steve is breathing hard but in general hasn't made much noise yet, and Tony wants to change that. He's always figured Steve would be relatively quiet in bed, and so far his expectations have been accurate. Which is exactly why the challenge of coaxing out a little moan or sigh is so tempting.

Giving in to his impatience, Tony takes his hands out of Steve's pants and places one on his chest while heaving himself up on the other elbow, hoping Steve will catch on to what he's trying to do. He does, and obligingly surrenders his dominant position, rolling onto his back. Tony smoothly follows, never even breaking the kiss, and takes over Steve's position, half on top of the other man.

The spot just behind his ear begs to be kissed and Tony does. Nothing X-rated, just a nuzzle and then an open-mouthed kiss, and he notes that Steve's mouth falls open. No sound comes out, though.

The pulse point is nice because, when kissed, it causes Steve to tilt his head back into the pillows, silently asking for more.

The collarbone is nicer because a kiss there makes Steve's fingers curl, digging into Tony's back.

The sternum is gorgeous because when Tony puts his mouth there, he can feel Steve's erection twitch.

And the nipple, oh, the nipple is just beautiful because when Tony swipes his tongue over it, Steve does moan, and it's an airy, whispery sound that sends victorious thrills along Tony's spine.

He goes lower. Along rock-hard abs, down the narrow little valley that divides the left half of his torso from the right. Steve pants, combing his fingers through Tony's hair, and Tony originally means to leave the rest for later, but... it's so seductive, the way Steve's Adonis belt peeks out from under his waistband, that he can't (= doesn't try to) stop himself from kissing that, too. From the top of the hipbone at first, before working his way down. He even goes so far as to pull Steve's pants down a fraction, but ends up pulling them further down than he intends so he's accidentally treated to a flash of Cap bush.

“Hey,” Steve half-laughs a little self-consciously, hands involuntarily twitching as if he wants to cover up but thinks better of it.

“Sorry.” Not sorry. “Got excited,” Tony mumbles and covers that part back up, but keeps pressing kisses to the pale skin next to it.

“Makes two of us,” Steve mumbles and it's delightful to hear that he's slurring.

Part of Tony wants to stay down there, finish pulling off Steve's pants, but instead he goes back up Steve's body and lies down next to him. Steve turns and Tony wraps his left calf over Steve's right so he can press their hips flush together. Both of them sigh.

Apparently Tony's boldness (not that he'd normally put what he just did under that label) has loosened some of Steve's inhibitions, too, his mouth suddenly on Tony's neck and his hand going up the back of his thigh. Still pretty chaste, but definitely progress.

Maybe in a couple months they'll be down to their underwear.

 

Tony, of course, can't know that Steve is, in fact, seriously contemplating just grabbing hold of Tony's pants and rip them in two. He could easily manage it. But it seems kind of a daring move for a guy who's only just put his hands anywhere below his companion's waist.

He wouldn't describe himself as shy, just, well, traditional. He's not sure if it's to do with the fact that he grew up in the '30s, or if it's just the way he is. Either way, in spite of his body urging him to do all kinds of rash, unmentionable things to Tony, he keeps his hands away from the entire pelvis area. Bearing his conservative nature in mind, he knows he'll enjoy it more if he allows this part to take time.

But then again, there's Tony. Battle scars, sharp wit, permanent twinkle in his eye. That rare smile that, on the few occasions Steve has seen it, is surprisingly sweet and genuine and stands out in such glaring contrast to the rest of him.

And seriously, his body.

It's different, certainly. The sharp angles and absence of softness, everywhere, feels strange. But it's difficult, regardless of gender and sexuality, to look at Tony Stark's physique and not nod appreciatively. More difficult still to touch him and not want to touch him a lot more.

His hair is softer than Steve thought. It always looks so carefully styled, Steve's imagined it'd be kind of crunchy to the touch, but it's not at all. Maybe it is normally – after all, Tony's slept on that hair all night, so a lot of the product has probably rubbed off on the pillow.

All of this is stuff that Steve has time to think about while they're making out, although he's kind of thinking all of it through a haze of arousal, and he has no idea how much time has passed since they first kissed. When Tony, at long last, pushes his hand down the front of Steve's pants, it doesn't matter.

He doesn't touch... that part. He kind of skirts around it, threading his fingers through Steve's pubes a little, thumbing at the crease between his thigh and crotch. His knuckles brush the shaft. Steve breaks the kiss to breathe harshly against Tony's neck.  _Just grab it already._

He squeezes Tony's hip and Tony mouths at his ear, smiling like the douchebag he is. His fingers are as close to the root of Steve's erection as they can possibly be without actually touching it.

“Hey,” Tony mutters. “Take it out. Let me see it.”

Steve swallows.

Tony's words are a suggestion, not a command, but it's not as if Steve is going to refuse.

Right. Tony Stark is about to see his dick, and the room is unforgivingly bright with early daylight so it's going to be really out there and he's not saying he's  _worried_ about what Tony will think but it's difficult to not at least  _wonder._

He's almost certain it's Tony's first time with a man, too, so he's also a little apprehensive regarding whether, after seeing this undeniable proof that Steve is definitely a man, Tony's mind will still be set on going through with this.

He starts saying,

“Are you--”

“Rogers,” Tony immediately interrupts, “if you ask me if I'm sure, I swear to God.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve says in a tone meant to disarm, feeling a little sheepish because that's exactly what he was about to say.

He's happy he doesn't have a zipper to fumble with right now. It's just a question of lifting the waistband, reaching in to grab himself (God, even that clinical touch feels good right now), push his pants down a little and, well, take it out. Like Tony asked.

The air in the room is warm from their activities, but still feels cool against that sensitive skin once Steve is exposed. His sweats and underwear are pulled down to just below it and okay Tony is legitimately staring. Heat rises to Steve's cheeks but he allows Tony a moment.

When that moment stretches on, he clears his throat, and Tony's eyes are blazing as they snap up to meet his.

“Nice,” he whispers. “Mind if I touch it?”

Steve exhales sharply in relief. It comes out sounding like a laugh because he's smiling.

“Go nuts.” His face grows hotter, stupidly. “I mean, uh.”

“Ha. In a minute, maybe. I wanna make my acquaintance with this first. I'm not, uh, I haven't ever really,” he scrunches up his nose, “you know.”

“I figured.”

Tony's eyes leave Steve's face and travel down again. Steve fights the urge to cover up.

“So,” Tony thinks out loud. “Never actually done this from this angle before, but surely it's just a matter of...”

His fingers close around Steve's shaft, awkwardly at first, but he quickly turns his wrist and adjusts his grip and Steve moans, eyes fluttering shut.

“Yeah, there we go,” Tony agrees.

Steve shudders when Tony's hand starts moving. His first few strokes actually border on tentative, but it's only until he gets used to the structure of Steve in his hand. After that, you'd never know he once was unsure. He's deliberate and firm, and Steve can only praise whoever made this man that they made him such a fast learner.

He buries his face against Tony's neck, unaware that he's also holding onto the fabric of Tony's pants so tightly his knuckles are a blotchy white.

“Hey,” Tony says again, voice low and husky in his ear. “I wanna do it the way you like it. Can you show me how?”

Steve colors again.

“Um.”

He tries to pull himself back from the fog enough to at least roughly analyze how Tony's technique differs from his own. He really doesn't want to explain verbally, though, so he puts his hand on top of Tony's, lengthening his strokes until they go from root to tip. Shit, that's even better. He lets go, and Tony deftly keeps pumping him the same way he was just shown.

“Is that it?” he double-checks.

“Yeah,” Steve moans.

God.

They're not kissing anymore, there's just Tony's hand on Steve and Steve's face against Tony's neck.

For a little while, Steve allows himself to get lost in a bunch of stuff.

How Tony smells – mostly just sort of warm and like the bed they're in, but also faintly of ground coffee and his hair a tangy kind of sweet.

The light that, when he briefly opens his eyes, highlights the grey in Tony's hair and reminds Steve weirdly of how he looks a lot younger than Tony, when in fact Tony is a lot younger than him. Technically. Then again, since Steve was asleep-- ugh, never mind.

Tony's body. Again.

And, obviously, how it feels, which is a lot like when he does it himself, except not at all. Each pull of Tony's hand makes him grind his teeth, furrow his brow. His gut feels knotted.

He wants to do it to Tony. Both because he's not one for sitting back while someone else does all the work, and because he just wants to, period. While the thought is a little daunting, he's been getting steadily more curious than intimidated.

Suddenly aware of how he's convulsively clutching Tony's pants, he loosens his grip, only to immediately hook his fingers around both waistbands, bare skin against his knuckles.

He pulls a little on it to indicate his intention, waits a second to allow Tony to stop him if he wants to, but he doesn't. He does still his hand, but only to lift his hips so Steve can get him naked. They wrestle with the fabric for a few moments, but then, yeah. Tony's naked.

Steve swallows audibly.

Staring feels impolite, but come on.

Tony's, ah,  _it_ has a slight upwards curve to it that Steve is intrigued to realize he finds kind of endearing. It flushes darker than Steve's own and looks like it's been ready to be touched for an aching stretch of time.

He looks up at Tony, who's apparently been waiting for him to finish plucking up the nerve, his dark eyes curiously bright and his features carefully arranged to look composed.

“Good to go?” he asks, three syllables, and Steve nods.

And they go.

Facing each other but with their eyes closed, Steve's hand wraps around Tony and Tony's hand starts up again, Steve mirroring his actions after barely hesitating.

It's actually not as scary as he imagined it. It's nice, even. Their breaths, now coming in short and erratic bursts, are warm against each other's faces. The slide of skin is smooth and easy and the noises Tony makes are highly rewarding, little  _nhs_ and  _ahs_ that spark a flare of want in Steve's belly. They kiss again and then Steve swirls a thumb around the catch of wetness at the tip of Tony's length, at which Tony's hand falters and he gasps harshly. Steve's chest swells. He's braver than he thought himself to be, and also more skilled, it seems.

Nice to know that during those six decades he was sleeping, at least  _this_ hasn't changed.

 

Steve's hand on him is a huge relief as well as widening his perception of the word “excruciating”. Steve's way of doing it is gentler than Tony's, and with longer strokes, and those two uncomplicated differences combined stir up odd contradicting emotions in him. Content and frustration, affection and annoyance. He wants to come, would love to come, and is getting there embarrassingly quickly in Steve's care, but he also wants it to last much longer.

And there's an idea that's appeared in his head that he can't shake, so he probably will have to try that out before he can have peace of mind. And he thinks it'll have to be soon, before either of them blow.

“I wanna try something,” he whispers. “You game?”

“Whatever you want,” Steve agrees, a little frantic.

Interesting response as he has no idea what Tony wants to do, but there'll be time to question that later.

Actually, no, he can't let it slide.

“Pretty interesting response considering you have no idea what I have in mind.”

Steve opens his eyes to meet Tony's, suddenly wary.

“Why, what is it?”

“Nope, too late. You agreed.”

“Tony.”

“Just trust me, okay?”

Steve sighs.

“Am I going to regret it if I do?”  
“Under almost any other circumstances, yes, but come on, who do you take me for? I know I usually wouldn't classify as vanilla, but I'd never push anyone out of their comfort zone. I mean, not in here.”

Steve sighs, but he's also got a very small smile on his face.

“All right.”

All right.

Tony kisses him and rolls him onto his back. Then he kisses his jaw, and his neck.

Chest.

Ribs.

Stomach.

“Jesus,” Steve breathes, wide-eyed, when he realizes where Tony's headed. “Tony,” he stops him with a hand on the back of his head and Tony looks up, eyebrow cocked, knowing what he's about to say, “Tony, are you sure you want to...?”

“Shut up or I'll use my teeth.”

Steve chuckles and removes his hand from Tony's head, and Tony keeps going.

He gets as far as the hipbone before realizing Steve's pants, which are still mostly on, seem like they'll get in the way.

Once the pants are gone, it's fascinating how big a difference they made even though they were halfway off and already exposed a lot. Now all of a sudden there's not just Steve's boner but also his calves, thighs,  _balls_ . Whoa. Tony hasn't prepared for how he'd feel about the balls.

He pulls himself together quickly, though, because, well, the sight kind of beckons. For starters, Steve's thighs are pretty awesome. One of his legs is bent and Tony slides a hand along the underside of that thigh, bends down to kiss along the inside. The soft blond hairs on Steve's legs all stand on end, skin contracting in goosebumps.

When Tony takes a breath, he smells musk and if he's honest with himself, it's a really intimidating scent in all its undeniable maleness and nudeness. But it also makes his heart race.

He takes it in his hand again, figuring it'll be easier if he's holding it steady. Then he rolls the foreskin back, revealing the rosy crown in full. Steve gasps softly. Tony looks at it for a moment. It towers majestically from his fist in a way that, he will admit, his own didn't quite in Steve's hand, but he searches himself and finds no bitterness about this fact. He guessed it already.

The bead of pre-come glistening at the tip is a little scary. The rest, Tony feels, should be fine, but he has no idea what to expect from that bead. He's poised above it, mouth half open, and a glance at Steve's face reveals that his eyes are closed. He's not doing anything to urge Tony on, just waiting.

There's a beat of silence and stillness while Tony contemplates how to go about this. Should he try to swallow it all down at once, or start off lightly by just licking, maybe? What will be more comfortable for him, and what will Steve prefer?

He ends up compromising. He steels himself and takes most of the head into his mouth, testing out how it feels to close his mouth around it. Steve moans, from his chest instead of his throat this time, and again but an octave higher when Tony's tongue swipes across the slit.

The bead is just kind of salty, it turns out.

He goes a little deeper, past the swell of the crown. Now that he's got Steve in his mouth, he knows it was the right decision to take this little by little. Not that any of this is rocket science, but given Steve's size and Tony's inexperience, it's the smart thing to do. Rocket science would probably have come more naturally to him.

He pretty soon finds out that he can't take more than roughly a third of the length in his mouth before his gag reflex is triggered. This fact doesn't seem to bother Steve in the slightest. He's grabbed on to the sheets the same way he was grabbing Tony's pants earlier, and his head is tilted back. Encouraged, Tony starts experimenting. Now that he's found out what he's okay with, time to see what Steve likes.

 

Even if Tony hadn't already confirmed the fact that he's never been with a man, Steve could have guessed by now. It's obvious from the experimental nature of his technique that this is Tony's first time giving a guy head. That, to Steve, is a nice thought because it means he doesn't have to feel inadequate. Even nicer if you stop to think about  _why_ this is a first for Tony – either Steve's the first guy he's wanted to do it with, or the first guy he's felt secure enough with to make a move.

It's amazing, regardless. Warm and wet and tight and after a little while, Tony finds the perfect amount of suction and Steve fights to keep his sanity intact. Each time Tony has to swallow, he does so with Steve still in his mouth and each time, Steve feels his balls tighten a little more. Tony's tongue on his frenulum is so good he can barely distinguish it from pain, and then Tony tries pumping him with the hand that he's so far only used to keep Steve's erection steady, and it's so good, it's, Jesus, shit.

“Oh--”, he accidentally says when Tony's other hand, which has been firmly placed on his hip thus far, wedges in under his butt cheek and squeezes it. “God,” he gasps, because it feels like that hand on his ass is urging him further into Tony's mouth and Tony is doing that on purpose and it is really freaking hot.

Tony hums soothingly and Steve moans in abandon when the vibrations from his voice pulse through him.

It's building rapidly, he feels it, bright and surging in that undefined spot in his lower body. It's fast, but that's fine – he's so tense. His body aches from it and his erection is straining, bursting.

He wonders if opening his eyes would be a good idea. He's not entirely sure he'll like what he sees – it could potentially be really freaky seeing someone's,  _Tony's,_ mouth around his dick - but he's too curious. Discreetly, he cracks his eyes open and raises his head a fraction.

He has watched porn. A few times. He's torn, usually – some of it's hot, some of it's disgusting and even laughable. The point is, it's not the first time he sees someone's mouth around someone's dick, and it's never been his favorite part of any porno.

But then there's this.

He instantly forgets that he doesn't really want Tony to know that he's watching him. He heaves himself onto his elbows to get a better look, a movement that should be impossible for Tony to miss or misinterpret. But it's difficult to tell if he does, as he seems pretty absorbed in what he's doing. Steve can now connect what he sees with what he feels and it's mesmerizing. When Tony sucks, his cheeks hollow out a little and it's fucking beautiful.

A jolt goes through Steve's shaft, reverberates through his entire body.

There's an ominous contraction of his balls and all of a sudden he's really about to come and he can tell it's going to be one hell of a blast.

“Tony,” he feels he has to say, figuring Tony might want to get his mouth and face out of the line of fire.

He gets no response, just the continued tight slide of lips and tongue and hand and oh God, he's seconds away, Tony needs to move  _now_ .

“Tony!” he says again, more urgently and in a higher pitch, and this time Tony seems to snap out of it, letting Steve out of his mouth with a small, indecent slurp and sitting up straight.

But he rewraps his fist so it's tighter, pumps a little harder and Steve takes in that whole picture, Tony between his legs, confidently handling him. His thighs go tense.

“Oh f--”, he almost swears, and his eyes roll back.

The pleasure is fierce, blinding as it's ripped out of him. He spurts long and hard and it's going everywhere, all over himself and possibly Tony. He's not sure, and he wouldn't be able to control it even if he were. It's still building, climbing, and he sobs once, twice, three times as it peaks, the last one coming out whiny and in several syllables. His back is arched, his throat exposed, his teeth bared in a snarl.

Tony holds one hand on Steve's helplessly thrusting hip while the other keeps milking him through his release. Part of Steve wishes he could see Tony's face, but he physically can't open his eyes.

When he finally starts to come down from it, his thighs are trembling. Spent and shivering, he draws a shuddering sigh while his back and hips automatically relax and he sinks back down entirely.

Tony doesn't take his hands off him, but he's stopped moving them, which Steve is thankful for.

They're silent for a stretch while Steve is landing, but then Tony lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a giggle.

Steve opens his eyes and looks at him questioningly.

“Oh, come on,” Tony smirks. “Even you have to admit that was pretty fast.”

Steve scoffs and looks away, blushing a little. Smiling, though.

“Asshole.”

“Hey. You're about to kiss me with that mouth.”

Steve's torso is a mess, and so is Tony's right hand. Tony is kneeling between his legs, dick still standing full and proud, but they need cleaning up before they can tend to that. Tony, efficient as ever, leans across the bed to where his nightstand is and pulls out a box of tissues from the drawer. He snatches a handful from the box and hands Steve a few, then uses the rest to wipe his hand clean. After a muttered thanks, Steve wipes his own come from his body to the best of his ability. He'll still need a shower once they're done, but at least it won't be dripping from him.

Tony just drops his tissues on the floor once he's finished, so Steve does the same, and Tony drops back down next to Steve, grabs a handful of hair at the back of his head. Kisses him. Steve returns the kiss, but he's far from sure he can return the other oral favor. He pulls back to give Tony one of his intense, solemn looks.

“I, uh,” he starts. “I'm all for returning favors, but in all honesty, I don't think I can do... what you did. Not yet.”

Tony, however, is shaking his head halfway through Steve's sentence.

“I didn't do it so you'd do it to me. I just did what I felt like doing. That's what I'm all about, as I'm sure you know by now.”

“A little too well. But, so... you're okay with just, you know, hands for the time being?”

Tony looks down his own body.

“We're about twelve seconds away from Cinco de Mayo down here. Anything you're selling, I'll buy it.”

Steve grins.

“Good.”

He gingerly takes Tony in his hand again and it feels really nice. Difficult to describe how, exactly, but sort of like it has just the right girth for Steve's hand, or maybe vice versa. And the skin is so, so soft and it just rolls up and down so easily. He's never given that a second thought before.

The angle is a little off, makes his arm ache. He shoves lightly at Tony's shoulder, rolling him onto his back. Steve's always preferred doing it on his back, hopefully the same goes for Tony. Considering how much more free movement it allows Steve right now, he assumes Tony doesn't mind. Steve sneaks a glance at his face in an attempt to evaluate. It seems all right, if a completely rapt expression is any indication.

The line of his naked body, illuminated by the grim morning light, is exquisite and fills Steve with a weird emotion. Similar to fondness, but he's reluctant to call it that since it's Tony. Maybe it's more like wonder, grounded in how nudity has this way of exposing people on a lot of different levels. Because right now, when Tony is stretched out like this, unembarrassed, letting Steve take the wheel... it's revealing. Not just physically. Relying on somebody to bring you to climax, without question and with next to no guidance, means trust on an entirely new level, one that Steve never expected he and Tony would reach. But it's nice to realize they have.

 

Tony supposes it makes sense that Steve is better at this than anyone else he's been with. Part of him regrets that it took him this long to try hooking up with a dude, while another part is glad he waited because come on, how rad is it that the first time he swings over the fence it's with Captain America?

Steve's hands are bigger than his own. The broader palms and longer fingers cover more than he's used to and it adds a dimension of strength, of being sheathed. Steve is going a little faster now than he was before, in a pace that Tony imagines he uses on himself when he's getting closer and that's a pretty nice thought.

Steve is lying on his side next to him. Tony is overwhelmed by the heat from his body even though they're not touching, and he thinks Steve probably has his eyes open, watching his own fist rhythmically covering and revealing the glistening head of Tony's dick.

He feels the pads of Steve's fingers drag deliciously along the vein on the underside of his shaft and he's whirring, something electric and powerful rising inside him and he kind of wants to take back what he said about Steve being quick because it's been less than a minute and he's really not far from blowing. He imagines he can feel every widened vein, every drop of blood that's making his dick stand straight, well, as straight as his gets – he knows it has a bit of a bend. He hopes it's charming.

In an attempt not to come like a fucking volcano just yet, he listens to Steve breathing next to him, but then Steve suddenly whispers,

“You know what I do sometimes?”

He doesn't wait for Tony's response before heaving himself up on his elbow. Tony's mind is blank, he has no idea what Steve is about to do, and there's no part of his brain that can or wants to try and come up with theories. So he just watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Steve shifts his grip from his right to his left hand. Tony can tell it's a little stiff and awkward because it's the same arm that's supporting his weight, but hey, the hand starts moving slowly and it's not bad at all. It's not as good as it was with his right hand, however, and Tony wonders if this is what Steve meant, that he sometimes goes left-handed because Tony is familiar with that but it doesn't make sense that Steve would think it would work on someone else but –  _oh –_ Steve is nudging Tony's thighs further apart with his free hand and there's a hand on his balls, and then – and then.

Steve dips his middle finger down past Tony's balls, to this sweet, ticklish spot just behind, and then he presses down on it gently _._

Tony lets out an undignified yelp, throws his head back and comes instantly.

There's no time to give Steve a heads-up, no time even for himself to prepare for it, it just tears out of him like a cannon blast.

Blindly, he claws at the sheets, his vision white. What the hell is this and how the fuck does fucking Steve Rogers, the human equivalent to herbal tea, know about it?

He realizes his eyes are wide open with shock and swiftly squeezes them shut, figuring staring probably makes him look deranged. He's barely breathing, just the occasional gasp. The sheets are crumpled in his fists while his body stays rigid and he comes and comes, coating Steve's hand and it's a little gross when it starts sliding too easily up and down but fuck it's hot at the same time. He wonders if Steve is looking, and if so, what he's looking at. Is he watching Tony's face, his slack jaw, his dark eyebrows, knotted together with bliss, or is he watching Tony's cock pulse in his hand, shooting out pearly ropes that are slicking up his fingers?

Either way, it draws a breathy moan out of Tony's throat.

His body starts settling at last. The convulsions stop and turn into erratic little twitches that has him clenching his jaw each time, but not much more than that.

He registers Steve's finger leaving that insane spot and the remains of his own jizz chilling the skin around his crotch when Steve lets go of him entirely, but he doesn't move, just winces and grunts vaguely. He still hasn't caught his breath and certainly can't muster the energy to open his eyes, so he just listens to the soft rustle of paper as Steve tissues off. Tony means to tidy himself up too, but Steve beats him to it.

“Hey,” Tony slurs, making half-hearted grabby motions with one hand. “You don't-- I'll do it.”

“Too late, it's done.” Steve balls up the soiled tissues. “Besides, you look like you can't even form a full sentence, let alone do a good job of mopping up.”

“Pfft. I can totally... You're being... I don't appreciate...”

Steve smirks like Tony has never seen him smirk, this wide shit-eating thing that shows off his annoyingly perfect teeth and Tony really wants to punch him, but he's low on energy so he settles for showing him his middle finger.

“Not sure I deserved that,” Steve says cheerfully, “considering.”

He lies down on his back next to Tony. Naked. Which he seems to realize, judging by how quickly he pulls a sheet over himself. Tony lets him, even though he's pretty sure they both technically need a shower before snuggling under his very expensive sheets.

The room smells of male musk, of sweat and come, and it reminds Tony of how his bedroom sometimes used to smell during his teens. He wonders if Steve's did too, if the Steve-before-Cap had the libido one would expect from someone of his, back then, modest size, or if it matched the dormant super hunk inside him.

“It smells awful in here,” Steve comments just then, and Tony is a little startled, but oddly pleased that they're thinking the same thing.

“Yeah. Takes me back.”

“To when, exactly? Actually, don't tell me, I'm sure it'll be gross either way.”

“Fine. I didn't want to tell you anyway.”

 

**10\. On butts.**

 

There's a door in Tony's bedroom that leads directly to a sleek, white-tiled bathroom. Steve goes for the first shower, almost an hour after they're done. It's obvious from his body language and the way he's looking at the floor that he's a little shy about getting out of bed naked, but he does anyway.

Tony has a chance to really look his fill as Steve crosses the room and disappears behind the door. For all the time he's spent checking out Steve's ass, in the uniform, in sweats, in jeans, it's not the same as checking it out when Steve hasn't got clothes on. Fuck, it's like it's sculpted. And  _smooth_ . Does he wax?

Probably not.

Probably just what you should expect from stupid Steve Rogers stupid, perfect butt.

It doesn't jiggle when he walks, either.

 

Steve comes back from the shower feeling even better than before. Now he's clean as well as riding a major endorphin wave.

“All yours,” he says, smiling at Tony.

Weirdly, he feels like doing something childish, like taking the damp towel he's got wrapped around himself and throwing it at Tony's face. But he doesn't. He figures that's no more than one notch above pulling someone's hair.

There's an awkward moment where Steve isn't sure if he should put his clothes on or get back in bed, but then Tony casually solves the problem by saying,

“Why don't you start making coffee and decide what you want for breakfast. Get FRIDAY to order us something.”

“I don't mind cooking,” Steve offers.

“Yeah, but it's a thing I have. Someone makes me come, they don't have to make breakfast.”

Steve snorts.

“That's very big of you.”

“Ha. You wanna start talking big?”

Steve follows Tony's gaze to where it's suggestively dropped.

“Tony, don't. Not a word.”

He even points at Tony to emphasize how much he means business. His neck feels suddenly itchy and warm.

“I didn't say anything. Honestly, Rogers, where's your mind?”

Steve shakes his head. Picks up his underwear from the floor and starts putting them on. Tony smirks, then gets out of bed in all his glory, and even though he shows no sign of discomfort under Steve's gaze, Steve still averts his eyes politely – old habits die hard.

They're so different, he and Tony, not just in size and height. The dark hair scattered across part of Tony's chest versus Steve's baby-smooth pectorals. Steve has this shock of dark pubic hair and a little treasure trail that starts at his belly button, while Tony's runs all the way up to his sternum but on the other hand, he looks groomed down below. The shape and definition of their biceps and delts, the curve of their hips. Their posture – Tony puts a lot of his weight on his lower back, while Steve stands up straight. If anything, he sometimes tends to hunch a little.

He does look at Tony's butt when he walks away. He's got manners, but that doesn't mean he's  _dead_ .

It's a really cute butt. Plump and firm and more innocent-looking than any of his other body parts, ears included. Yet, despite its innocence, Steve finds that while he's staring at Tony's ass as it smoothly moves with his steps, he's thinking things he's never thought before.

His cheeks feel warm and so does his groin and he wonders what it would be like to grab onto those curved cheeks and just... if they... if Tony would let him...

He swallows, and adjusts himself in his underwear. For a moment he's not sure what he's really supposed to be doing right now.

Uh.

Right. Pants. He should definitely wear pants in the kitchen.

 

**11\. On coffee.**

 

There's nothing like that first cup of coffee in the morning. Especially if it's accompanied by bacon and bagels and made by someone really hot who really knows how to take the edge off a break-up.

 


End file.
